Coxa
by JennaGill
Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended. Originally written for Prompts in Panem's Dreamscape Prompt: Rats in the final round, this story has grown and developed into ten chapters with both this prologue and an epilogue in alternating Everlark points of view. Repost of Prologue, new chapters posted weekly.
1. Prologue: Peeta's Nightmare

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

l stumble into the woods, searching for relief from my injuries. I tear through the brush, leaving a haphazard trail in my wake. I collapse at the bed of a stream, thirsty and drained, with water only a few feet away.

The forest growls around me, the trees and sky emanating an unnatural shine. The horizon shifts when I roll over and reach down, expecting to find my thigh slickened. The wound was gushing blood the last time I was here.

My head snaps up at the sound of someone approaching. My back and forehead dampen with sweat, fear coursing down my body in erratic waves. My arms extend out, grappling for my spear, a rock, or anything to use for defense and only find dirt.

Dust swirls as a cloaked figure approaches me until I lie completely in my reaper's shadow. Death must be near, even without an open leg wound. Dread fills me to the brim, I can't even hope for my odds to change or to know she's safe.

Her face comes into view, stoic and polished. Her cape and hood fall from her body, though her colors are all wrong. Her face is twisted into a mask of indifference and her original midnight Mockingjay uniform is coated in red.

I am paralyzed and growing roots with every moment that passes. I focus on the three middle fingers on her left hand, dipped in blood and aiming an arrow at me. I scan her face for any sign of awareness, but the mutt is in charge now and ready to bare her fangs.

"For Prim," she whispers and releases the arrow that immediately lodges deep in my left hip. Fire ignites from the point of entry and burns through my joints. Flames lick at my pants, up my torso until I am consumed by a searing pain.

Am I trapped in an another episode or nightmare? Am I back in an arena somehow? Am I under the cruel watch of Peacekeepers and malicious doctors?

My eyes fly open, and, while a part of me fears that I'll see my Capitol cell or the sterile compartment in District Thirteen, I am greeted by Katniss's soft snores on my shoulder. My nightmare may have been not real, but the throbbing pain in my hip is definitely real. My desire to hold her close and erase the visions flitting through my mind is overruled by the need to shift her weight off me and get some air.

And the little things start to add up. All the times I couldn't bend over to double knot my shoelaces or sit crossed-legged on the floor to draw with the kids. Also the way it hurt to fuck her last night–hard, like we crave sometimes.

I'll have to see a doctor to investigate the source of this pain, though I doubt the District Twelve hospital will have the means for a full diagnosis. I'll have to swallow twenty years of white coat fear and syringes pointed at me. I'll have to survive for her, for them.


	2. Chapter 1: Katniss -- Observations

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

It starts on a Tuesday. Or rather, I start noticing it on a Tuesday night. Peeta is hovering, his hips whipping into mine. A grimace flashes across his face when a moan escapes my lips. He clenches his jaw, undoubtedly grinding his teeth, and flips us on the bed. His body lies passive while I ride him to our completion and make the mental note to ask about the face later.

He whispers my name in his sleep later that night, something he hasn't done in years.

In the early morning hours he shuffles out the door to the bakery without saying anything, just a kiss on my forehead. I peek open an eye and notice that his shoelaces are not even tied. He always double knots them, just like I know the window was left open last night, despite the February chill.

When he returns that afternoon, I can see from the kitchen that his shoelaces are still untied. How he didn't trip on them all day, especially with snow and ice still on the ground, I don't know. Peeta's tread has always been loud, but his uneven gait is more prominent when he walks across the house. Heavy on his right, sound leg and light on his left. I track him across the house, step stomp, step stomp, step stomp. Peeta spends his life on his feet, in the bakery and painting. About the only time he sits is when he's reading to the kids or sketching. He could be having pain in either leg, or at the prosthesis connection. I don't know. I give the stew a stir and catch him on the way to the laundry room.

"Hey," I say, placing my palm across his chest. "Rough day at the bakery?"

"Not too bad, how about you?" he asks and wraps his arms around me.

I return the hug and breathe in my favorite bakery scents: fresh bread, cinnamon, and cheese buns. His heat seeps into my bones and warms me. I've been chilled since he left this morning with this uneasy feeling in my gut. "Good. Cara is working on math in her room, and Patrick has some fresh artwork to show you," I tell him and nod towards our son on the living room floor. I pull away slightly, to peer down at his shoes. "Did you know that your shoelaces are untied?"

"Uh, yeah. I just never took time to do it today," he says as he backs away from me and diverts his eyes to the floor.

"Is something hurting?" I ask gently, sliding down his body to reach his laces. My eyes linger on his from this position as I double knot them securely.

"No, I just…" he trails off when I drag my fingertips back up his thighs.

"If you're in pain—more than normal, you should go see Dr. Mills. We'll both be 38 this spring. You know we're not the young kids we used to be," I say as I rise back up to meet him in the eye. "He's a good doctor too; he'll listen."

Another odd look flashes across his face as he steps back from me, and then it's gone again. "I'm just tired, _someone_ didn't allow for enough sleep last night after the kids went to bed," he teases.

"I'll make you a deal, Peeta. If you are hurting and do decide to make an appointment with District Twelve's clinic, then I'll make it worth your while. I will see to it that you don't get enough sleep, _several_ nights in a row," I tease right back at him, planting a brief kiss on the side of his face.

"That's a hard bargain, Katniss," he grins as he steps into the living room to inspect Patrick's latest masterpieces. Patrick has certainly developed his dad's love for color, while his older sister prefers music, dancing, and reading.

It's clear to me that something is amiss, but Peeta is a stubborn one to admit any faults. If something is bothering him, it will take a while to come to the surface.

He ties his shoelaces for the next few days. Well, sort of. Instead end of leaning over to tie them or sit on the bed and bring his feet up to the opposing knee, I've noticed that Peeta loosely ties his shoes and slips in his right foot. The left seems easier, since he can detach, double knot his laces, and reattach without straining to reach his laces. I watch him closer over the days. His gait gets worse, and he hides his pain in his clenched jaw and winces. He must think I can't see it. I have not brought the doctor back up in a few days, and he hasn't offered.

It isn't until an impromptu game of tag inside the house during a late winter blizzard that I hear him call out in pain. Patrick and Cara have him cornered in the living room; he dodges left around a chair and slips on a rug. He puts on a brave face for the kids, but he's always done that so well. I can see that his 'I'm fine' smile doesn't quite meet his eyes as he staggers to reach the chair.

"Peeta…" I warn as I approach him, still hunched over the chair, gripping the back to the point of white knuckles.

"I know, Katniss. I know. I'll make an appointment tomorrow," he promises.

Relief washes over me that he's willing to admit there's a problem or cause for concern. It helps because it feels like there have been days in the last few week that he moved around so well that I thought I had imagined it all. Not during the blizzard though, not when the air pressure dropped.

He leans in to claim his prize when I retreat.

"No, not yet. You'll get your reward after you make the appointment, and then I'll make good on my promises," I say.

"Well in that case, can you make me a snow pack?" he pleads.

I raise an eyebrow at him and venture to the cupboard for a bag to pack in some snow. I throw on a coat to brave the blizzard outside to collect snow off the back porch.

He eases down into the chair and props up his feet. He accepts the snow pack and arranges it across his hip. I let him rest while I get the kids ready for bed, and we turn in without another word on the topic. I'm fine with the silence for now. I know he'll open up when he wants to.

Peeta makes the appointment as soon as the offices reopen from the storm. He asks me to stand next to him to overhear the receptionist confirm the time and date he secured earlier in the day from the bakery.

"Must have been some pretty powerful incentive, hun?" I rib him, turning to check our dinner on the stovetop.

"You bet it was, when can I collect on—" he pauses, leaning over my shoulder and grabbing my hips and pulling me to him. "—our deal?"

"Just as soon as the kids are down," I say.

After dinner, Peeta races off to bathe Patrick, well as fast as he can with whatever is bothering him. I can hear him monitoring Cara's homework and bedtime routine, while I clean up downstairs. He hasn't talked about the source of his pain, though I suspect it is his knee and maybe his hip. I slip upstairs and into my pajamas, waiting for him to join me. When he closes our bedroom door behind him and gives the all clear signal, I command him to lie on the bed after he's removed his clothes and his artificial leg.

"You've been a good father, a good husband, and above all, a good man. Thank you for setting the appointment," I say, admiring his strong, stocky body. "Turn over, I'll rub the back of your legs first."

He obliges me. "This wasn't the reward I was thinking," he muffles into the pillow.

"Just be patient," I laugh. I warm some lotion between my palms and start with his foot, curling my fingers between his toes, pressing small circles with my thumbs into his arch. I work my way up to his calf, fanning my strokes around to the front side of his leg. Once I reach the back of his knee, I synchronize my movements on both legs. More muffled noises from Peeta let me know that he doesn't mind starting out with a massage.

"I love your hands on me," he exhales.

I smile as I work large, circular swaths into the meat of his thick thighs and alternate both hands on each to knead the muscles for a few minutes at a time. Once I reach his ass, I can't resist cupping each cheek and giving him a playful squeeze. I finish his back side by rubbing in circular motions around each hip. His groans and moans have eased into a relaxed silence. I worry that I've put him to sleep already with my ministrations and he'll miss out on the best part of his reward. Featherlight strokes across his lower back seem to revive him as I pull on his prone body.

"Flip over please, we're not done yet," I coax softly.

Peeta releases a satisfied sigh. "You mean there's more?" He dutifully turns over and stretches his arms behind his head to watch me.

"Oh yes, I want to show you just how proud of you I am," I say, meeting his eyes with a playful gleam and return to massaging him, artfully dodging his rising erection for now. I pace myself from his knees back up to his hips, ensuring that all muscles are loose and relaxed. I continue my light touches around his entire pelvis, inching closer to his groin. When I can't avoid it any longer and feel myself reacting to the sight of it, I grasp him with my lotioned hands. His mouth forms an 'O' as he nestles his head back into the pillow and squirms his hips.

His blue eyes lock on to mine. "C'mere, let me have at you for a while," he asks.

I rise up to give him a lingering kiss, and he tries to hold me there, cupping my jaw. "No, no," I tut. "This is about you." I rub him from base to tip, though mainly concentrating on the muscles of his shaft. His cock is bright red and aching with need. I lean forward and lick the weeping head, sending him into another squirming fit.

"Too much," he pants. "That's too much, slow down Katniss."

I resume ghosting strokes down his shaft, chasing them with my tongue. I cup his balls in my palms, gently rolling my thumb between them. My hips begin to undulate against his knee, in search of friction. I take him into my mouth again, my lips applying pressure down his shaft until the tip hits the back of my throat. I hold his hips down as I bob a few times, maintaining my grip as my mouth glides up and down.

Careful not to overstimulate him, I release his cock with a pop and continue to rub on his belly and hips. My fingers card through the darker blond curls there.

"Katniss, please. C'mere," he begs.

I shed my pajamas and climb over him, careful not to place any weight on his body. I slide down onto his straining cock, enveloping him in my wet heat. I stay upright, swearing that his cock is reaching to the very center of my core. It's almost too much for me, until he grasps at my hips for movement. I tilt forward and then pitch back on my knees and shins, focusing on our connection and bracing myself against our headboard. I'm grateful to have something to hang on to as I rock over him. His fingers dig into my ass as he buries himself deeper with each thrust. I find the right angle to catch his pubic bone on my clit and stay in that arc until I'm panting his name. We finish in a heap of limbs and sweat, completely sated.


	3. Chapter 2: Peeta -- Relevations

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

This becomes our ritual over the next few nights, leg massage and lovemaking until we're both exhausted. It works best for me if I lie down with her on top, though taking her from behind still feels fine on my joints. When I lie on top of her with my legs extended behind me, it seems like I'm adding stress to my joints, so I make adjustments as we go. Some nights we just lie side by side and our bodies wind up connected. Sometimes I bring her up to sit on my face so that she can be on the receiving end as well.

After a few more nights, I open up to her about the nightmare, the pain, all of it while she lies in my arms. She needs to know—even if I do keep the worst of it to myself—that they may not be capable of mending me here in District Twelve.

Her warm body, tucked into mine, freezes when I relay to her how her mutt form still infiltrates my subconscious, but I keep stroking the sinews of her back to calm her. It's been so long since I've had an episode, but I explain how this was different, and I feel her body relax into understanding. In some ways, it's worse than an episode because there aren't any triggers. It's a return of the nightmares we shared between our Games and after the rebellion. They creep into my mind as I sleep, when I'm completely defenseless against them. They went away once; I'll have to figure out how to rid myself of them again.

"Am I hurting you, with all of the sex?" she asks with a timid tremor in her voice as she pulls away to look me in the eye.

"Sometimes, some things more than others," I reply honestly to her as she starts to pick at a thread in the blanket. "As long as you're willing to change it up when the pain starts to get worse, it's fine. It's been worlds better the last few nights with your tender touch to loosen up my tight muscles." I tip her chin to me, trying to bring her eyes back up to mine.

She seems to consider this, her silver eyes somewhere very far away from me. "Have I been making this worse for you?" she asks with a guilty tone.

"No, better, " I tell her, my words finally pulling her eyes back to mine. "I feel so much better afterwards. It's been getting me through the pain of the day, knowing that you'll take care of me later, that we'll take care of each other," I assure her.

"My pain has been getting worse, though. I've always had daily pain where my prosthesis attaches, but over the last couple years, it has traveled higher," I explain, with a vague motion up my thigh.

"So is it your knees, leg, or your hip?" she asks, bringing her hand to my left knee stub and rubbing it again.

My eyes roll back into my head. It feels so good when the damaged parts of me get attention too. "I honestly don't know. That's what I'm hoping to find out from Dr. Mills."

I spend some additional time with the kids the next night. Now that I've opened up to Katniss and put the truth out there, I want to tell them too.

Patrick and I are in the studio, painting the winter scene outside the window. I show him how to mix the paints for sunlight on the snow, something I started figuring out long ago. I teach him to layer all sorts of colors, one by one. He dabbles his brushes in the white, gray, yellow, brown, and black and smears it on his canvas to create his scene. He'll be a better artist than me one day.

"Patrick, you know how daddy had to stop playing tag the other night?"

He scrunches up his eyes and nose, pulling the memory out. "Yeah, Daddy, you sat with a snow pack on your lap the rest of the night."

"Yeah, well Daddy has an ouchie, deep inside. Mom and I are going to go to see Dr. Mills to see if he can fix it, or at least tell us what's wrong," I explain.

"He'll fix you up, Daddy, he's a good doctor. He always fixes me and Cara," he says.

"I hope, buddy, I hope so," I tell him.

"Don't worry Daddy, Dr. Mills is a nice man," Patrick says, and I smile at him. That's both Katniss and Patrick trying to assure me about the local doctor. I'm not scared of him though. It's the others.

We finish up our paintings, and I get him ready for bed. I tuck him in and stifle a grunt when a sharp pain sears across my hips as I lean over to kiss him good night. I limp to Cara's room next, opening up to her with the same story but with more details about my pain.

"The thing is though, they may not be able to fix me here, that I may have to go away," I say. Somehow it's easier to tell her than Katniss, also to gauge her reaction as to how Katniss will take the news, if it goes that way.

She ponders this for a moment, her brave eyes widening with an epiphany.

"You're like a dandelion, Daddy," Cara says brightly.

"What do you mean, sweetie?" I ask, a little taken aback.

"We learned all about them in Science class, since it's nearly time for them to bloom—for the first time," she explains.

"Oh yeah?" I say, dubious about the connection.

"Yes, you have strong legs like their thick tap roots. You're already a golden-topped flower like their first bloom. Then you'll close up—while you're gone—like they do, to develop the seeds, only to rebloom again as fluffy seed heads that dance on the wind. You'll be able to dance again when you get back!" she says with enthusiasm.

"That's beautiful honey, thank you," I say, touched and verging on emotional. I kiss her goodnight and turn off her light. I limp down the hallway to our bedroom, with visions of dandelion seeds floating on the breeze in my head.

"I just heard the strangest, sweetest thing from Cara," I tell her as I detach my prosthetic leg and lie down in bed.

"Oh yeah, what did our brilliant girl tell you?" She asks, her back turned to me.

"That I'm a dandelion," I say.

Katniss makes an odd, choking noise in her throat before crawling over me and smothering me in kisses. I can barely catch my breath before she claims my lips again and again. "You are, you are a dandelion," she utters before frantically ripping off her pajamas and tugging down my pants. I'm inside her within a minute and her hips pop into me at a frenzied pace. She's doesn't explain the sudden need, but I'm too lost in the feel of her to ask for an explanation. All I can feel is Katniss.

We go to see Dr. Mills together on our scheduled day. Sae watches Patrick while we're gone since Cara is at school. I always thought of Sae as old back before our first Games, when she served soup from her stall in the Hob. Life in District Twelve before the rebellion prematurely aged everyone though and she's weathered well into her seventies now. She still loves to help out with the kids and brings her granddaughter sometimes.

Once we have been ushered into an examination room, Dr. Mills and his nurse greet us. We're on good terms after he helped bring both of our children into this world.

"Good morning, Peeta. What brings you in?"

"Dr. Mills, when I made the appointment, I described my concerns to the receptionist and asked that my previous records be sent to you for comparison. Did you receive them?"

"Yes Peeta, your medical records were all classified under President Snow's regime, but Dr. Aurelius was able to send the files applicable to your original amputation after the 74th Games, as well as x-rays taken in District Thirteen and the Capitol during the rebellion," he explains.

"Do those tell you anything?" Katniss asks.

"No, they just provide a baseline. We'll have to do more x-rays today to see what's going on in there to cause this immense pain," Dr. Mills says. "Luckily, our medical facility here is equipped to handle these tasks.

Dr. Mills and his nurse record my vitals and examine my flexibility. It's not good. I can't even get my knee halfway to my chest or bend over to reach my shoes.

Once the preliminary exam is complete, Katniss is asked to wait in the hallway while the techs contort my body on a table to get as clear of a picture as possible on the ancient x-ray machine. I open the door, and the relief on her face is palpable at seeing me again, even though it's only been a few minutes.

"Is it that bad out here?" I ask looking down to both ends of the hallway. "Because it wasn't any better in there, I assure you," I say, motioning behind me and trying to bring levity back.

"I didn't like being separated from you, that's all. We're in this together, we should be together," she says.

We're both nudged into a small conference room once I'm done. Katniss and I wait for the images to develop for a while, hands clasped together.

Dr. Mills brings comes back into the room with a new doctor in his wake.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Mellark. I am Dr. Shaw." He pauses to shake both of our hands. "I'm a radiologist, and I've analyzed your x-rays," Dr. Shaw says as he places the black and white images before us on a table. He flips a switch, illuminating the slides from beneath. I've seen a table like this once in District Thirteen, and the memory isn't a pleasant one. It was the first time I sat across from Alma Coin, when she told me about Star Squad 451 and my new role as a soldier for her army. I'm just as uneasy in front of this light board table now as I was back then.

"Well, what do you see?" I ask, reaching for Katniss' hand to put back to mine. "They look normal enough to me."

"Yes, to the untrained eye, it might seem that way. However, look here on the femur head, now versus then. Do you see the deformities here and here?" he motions with a pen.

He continues to point to different locations on the x-rays, but it all looks the same to me. It's hard to see straight at this point with the news he's dropping on us. _Deformities_ doesn't sound good.

"Your x-rays reveal arthritic bone spurs at the hip joint and a flattened femoral head," he explains, and my heart stops. That sounds worse. Definitely very bad.

Katniss and I gasp aloud, and she's the first to speak. "What does that mean?"

"It means, Mrs. Mellark, that something has gone very wrong with your husband's left hip over the last twenty years when we compare his current condition to the old x-rays. My assumption would be that he has been overcompensating with his sound leg to the detriment of his amputated leg, shifting the point of connection in his hip joint," he says, pointing to the x-rays.

Interrupting the maelstrom in my head, Dr. Mills redirects my attention.

"Peeta, have you always had trouble bringing your knee to your chest, or leaning over to touch the ground?"

"No, just recently. The last few years," I rasp. "It's only the last few months where it was really affecting my quality of life. That's when I noticed that I couldn't do all the usual things."

"I see. I'll bet that you were in a fantastic amount of pain with the drop in barometric pressure the last few weeks," he surmises.

I nod absently as he continues, unable to form any more words. My head is spinning, and the room seems incredibly small.

"He has, doctor. He hasn't been able to lean over to tie his shoelaces," Katniss chimes in with her observations. "I've been, um, massaging his hips and legs every night to ease his suffering, but the pain seems to return in the morning."

My face reddens at her description, but it's technically therapeutic, and it breaks me to realize that Katniss has known something all along. She just needed me to tell her.

"That's good, Katniss—that will help loosen his tight muscles and alleviate his pain. Unfortunately, that won't be enough to solve the problem," Dr. Mills says.

I notice Katniss nodding along as well. Her mind is probably whirling too.

"Of course, these x-rays only provide part of the picture of his condition. He will need to have an MRI done to ensure that the bone surrounding the joint isn't dead, but we do not have that option here in District Twelve. He'll have to get that done in the Capitol before replacement surgery," Dr. Shaw adds.

"Do what now?" she blurts out, and I stiffen.


	4. Chapter 3: Katniss -- Options

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

"We're just not equipped for that type of surgery here in District Twelve, Mrs. Mellark," Dr. Shaw explains. "We're lucky to have this relic of an x-ray machine."

"Why not? Why would he have to go to the Capitol? Why not District Four? My mom works at a big hospital there," I plead. Peeta grabs my hand and encases it within his.

"The surgical centers are located in what has been called the Paragons of Panem, which are spread out across the country. The two that focus on orthopedics are located in the Capitol and District Four," he pauses when he sees my face light up at the possibility of handling this in District Four. "Unfortunately though, this specialty surgery will need to occur in the Capitol. They have the surgeons, the equipment, the physical therapists, basically everything he'll need for a hip replacement," Dr. Mills says.

"But, we don't even know that he _needs_ surgery. There could be other alternatives that you're not considering," I bark back at him. He hasn't shown an ounce of compassion since sweeping into this room with his bad news, so I lack patience in my tone.

"Mrs. Mellark, his x-rays show that he's 100% bone on bone. He's apparently in pain, and it's only going to get worse," Dr. Shaw advises. "The Capitol surgeons will make the final call, but I'm 99% sure that he needs a new hip joint, as soon as possible, to improve his quality of life."

I'm stunned into silence at his declaration. Even though District Twelve manufactures most of the medicine in the new Panem, I just assumed that every district was equipped for any kind of surgery. Medicine manufacturers live in District Twelve though, not surgeons. A sense of irony washes over me that the medications Peeta will need during and after surgery will likely be traveling with him on the same train to the Capitol. Why they can't just come here to fix him? I refuse to understand.

As the doctor drones on, I flash back to the temporary hospital in District Eight—corpses in the hallways and wounded people on the floors. I shudder at the memories and think maybe he is better off going to the Capitol, surrounded by cutting edge technology and medicines.

Hospitals also remind me of Prim, Finnick, and Johanna. I wrinkle my nose instinctively with the heavy smell of disinfectant and antiseptic soaps filling my nostrils from memory.

Surgeons, morphling, and use of other pharmaceutical grade medicines are associated with either the Capitol or District Thirteen, neither of which are very welcomed or encouraged in the Mellark household after everything we have endured. Our healers in District Twelve are still the most popular for typical ailments, and we only see the doctor for critical problems. The healers would offer green tea and willow bark, which might ease his pain, but they aren't going to mend his bones.

I ease into acceptance as the the doctor's words keep floating through my head, _increased use of his right, sound limb is detrimental to rehabilitation of his left, prosthetic limb…_

It all begins to makes sense as to why we would be here after twenty years. Peeta never received any physical therapy, gait training, or instructions for walking with equal weight on sound and prosthetic limbs after the 74th Games. They just sent him home on a train with a cane, a drunk, and a broken girl. He then exercised with excessive use in training for the Quell like Careers, not to mention suffered heart failure when he hit the arena's electric force field. I wouldn't imagine that there had been anything therapeutic in the Capitol during his imprisonment. Once the rebels rescued him, the doctors in District Thirteen were immediately focused on his mental rehabilitation, not his physical. The Capitol would have patched his burned skin after the final assault on the mansion but still avoided his legs.

Suffice it to say, his other physical ailments were largely ignored before, during, and after the rebellion. We all tried to move on after that and find our normal. For him, that was painting and baking, and growing back together with me. 

I rejoin the conversation and nod along to the others in the conference room. It seems smaller now with the walls of reality closing in on us. They'll want to clean out any scar tissue, remove damaged portions of his bones, and replace parts I can't even fathom. He will have physical therapy that will focus on range of motion exercises to decrease soreness and tightness in his joints. They'll send him home after a few weeks with a list of precautions and exercises to continue from his therapy.

We listen to the doctors discuss our options with what they know from the few surgeries they have sent on to the Paragons of Panem. We don't even need to go home to have the necessary discussions and make the obvious decision to continue down the road that ends with Capitol surgeons. 

There's one more matter though, one that I need to know now.

"Can I go? I need to go. I need to be with him before they take him into surgery and when he wakes up. I need to be the first thing he sees to keep him calm," I demand in panic.

"That's a good question, Mrs. Mellark. We would have to check with the appropriate Capitol government officials and have a navigator arrange the travel and lodgings.

"Surely you know what happened to him...there, in the Capitol. This is not a good memory for him, or for any of us. He needs—," I choke back tears, "He needs his full support team with him for this...procedure," I manage.

"We know, Katniss, but unfortunately, that's not up to us," Dr. Mills replies.

"Mr. Mellark, we'll contact you with more information about the Paragons of Panem once it's available, but expect this process to happen fairly quickly, within the next few weeks at least," Dr. Shaw estimates.

We utter minimal pleasantries on the way out and walk home, hand in hand, yet a despondent silence hangs over us.

While phone calls are made and it's discussed among the Capitol doctors and government officials, I foolishly get my hopes up for a whole week. I start making plans with Sae to take care of the kids while we're gone in the Capitol for an undetermined amount of time. I jot down notes for their meals, schoolwork, baths, and bedtimes to occupy myself during the wait. Sae is very familiar with the kids, my mother would be less so. Being away from the kids already feels like torture, but Peeta needs me.

I consider trying my mom too, as backup, just in case Sae isn't available or isn't feeling well. My mom visits once or year or so, her job at the hospital in District Four seems to be a priority over everything else, including her grandchildren. I call her in the middle of the day, hoping to not catch her in a break from her strict schedule, but the odds are not in my favor when she picks up on the fourth ring. She croaks out a groggy hello but I bypass all pleasantries.

"Mom, Peeta has been experiencing some pain in his hip. The doctors here want him to get it checked out in the Capitol, as opposed to there in District Four," I blunder out.

"Do the doctors think it's connected to his prosthesis?" she asks in her clinical tone.

I shrug and squeeze my eyes shut but realize she can't see me, "They don't know. Maybe? We just want answers. I want to go with him and I will need help with the kids while we're in the Capitol. Can you come to stay with them?" I ask.

"Well if it's connected to his prosthesis, then yes, he would need to go to the Capitol. The orthopedic surgeons at our Paragons of Panem focus mainly on shoulders replacements, since those are more common here. The Capitol has more advanced techniques there anyway," she adds.

"But would you be able to take time off, to come here?" I ask more urgently.

"I'm not sure Katniss, but I'll ask tonight when I go in for my shift. This is somewhat short notice, you know," she says.

It's short notice for me too, but I don't think she wants to hear that. "Yeah, I know mom. This took us by surprise as well but he'll need me to be with him, every step of the way," I reply.

"Okay, Katniss, I'll see what I can do," she promises.

I hang up the phone and slide down the wall, head in my hands. In some ways, I'd love for her to be here and in others, I already wish I hadn't asked.

Haymitch comes over for dinner during that week. After the kids are down, Peeta lays the news on Haymitch. He even asks if he can help the ladies with the kids.

"He's only… what? Not even forty? Surely you can't have already worn out his hips by now, Katniss!" Haymitch jokes.

"Don't be gross, Haymitch," I spit at him.

"Hey, I'm not the one that keeps a window cracked. You two should be more concerned with your privacy," he says.

I roll my eyes and can see Peeta fighting the same urge. Haymitch has been saying that for twenty years.

"This is serious. He needs surgery, and I'm going with him," I say.

"Oh you are, are you? Work that all out by yourself, did you?" Haymitch laughs.

"What do you mean, Haymitch?" Peeta asks.

"There's no way she'll be able to go. Everyone has moved on from those rulings and Paylor isn't in charge anymore. Her successors have less loyalty and understanding for you. No one is going to want to crack open that case. They won't want the Mockingjay, a known assassin, to fly free." He imitates a bird in flight with his hands and redirects his attention to Peeta. "Victor status probably won't get you any favors either."

"That's enough for one night, Haymitch," Peeta says, exhausted.

"Better prepare yourself for the inevitability of staying right here, in District Twelve, sweetheart." He rises from the rocking chair, pockets the small bottle of white liquor he's been sipping on, and strolls to the door.

My lips curl in disgust for my former title. It brings back too many dark memories on a day that I've already revisited a few too many.

He leaves, and I consider his words. They weigh me down while I get ready for bed. I'm still stuck in my head when Peeta enters the bedroom.

"It's been twenty years. I'm no longer under the care of Dr. Aurelius since I'm not a 'hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic' anymore, or however he sold it to the court back then," I say as I throw air quotes around the room.

"I know, Katniss, I know," Peeta sighs. "I want you there with me too. I won't be able to do this without you."

"Surely the confinement won't still stand? I've never wanted to leave District Twelve, not even to visit Johanna or Annie and little Finn. My mom always comes here to visit, when she can," I huff.

"I can't see that it would. I mean, from the little trial footage I was allowed to watch, the new government didn't seem to know what to do with you or where to put you, but that was then. We barely had a president at the time," he says from recollection.

I wouldn't know. I was locked in my room at the Training Center. "Right. Now it's the only thing I want since your surgical team won't come here," I whine.

He wraps me in his strong arms and pulls the pain from my heart. If I'm not allowed to go with him, I'll have to set my own fears and discomfort aside to focus on Peeta. I won't be able to shut down like my mother, like I've done before. I refuse to do that to the kids, to him.

My thoughts turn to Peeta. How will he handle this? Can he handle it?

That night he has another nightmare that even reaches me in my deep sleep. He's sweating profusely, thrashing, and muttering aloud.

"Not real, Peeta, not real," I say as I shake him.

"Don't touch me. Leave me alone," he shouts into his pillow.

I grab hold of him to bring him out of wherever he's gone, whoever is attacking him tonight. Selfishly, I hope it's not mutt Katniss he sees. "Not real," I repeat, over and over into his skin.

He wakes, turns his head, and his clouded blue eyes slowly focus on me, on our room. I cradle his head to my chest and stroke his damp hair. It's a reminder of how fragile my strong husband truly is.

"But it is, Katniss, it is real," he whispers to my collarbone, and a deep dread settles over us.

It's Effie that calls with the bad news. It's worse to know that Haymitch was right.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss, the court ruling still stands. The government officials have declared that you still have to stay in District Twelve until further notice." she relays.

"But Effie, this is an emergency, and that was twenty years ago! This is Peeta! Why can't they make an exception for him?" I beg to her, unwilling to ask for special accommodations in the name of being the Mockingjay, especially after what Haymitch said.

"I know, I know, dear girl. I hate to be the bearer of this news. I tried. I vouched on your behalf and explained the delicate situation, and they were still firm after their deliberations," she says.

I tell her I understand (I don't) and let her know that Peeta will be in touch for further instructions before hanging up the phone and doing something stupid, like crying. I begin to pace instead.

It's hard to accept that I won't be going. Harder still to know that he'll have to do this without me. He's done so much on his own, and I had finally reached a point in my life that I stopped feeling like I owed him for saving my life. With my absence on this journey, the debt opens back up again, and I'll forever regret not being there for him. I might not be at peace about staying, but I can be sure to prepare him for travel and be ready for him when he returns to me, to us.


	5. Chapter 4: Peeta -- Planning

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

I start the onerous process of setting up management shifts and ordering supplies at the bakery for the weeks I'll be gone and then out for recovery. It's one of the things in my life that I can and do control. As I learned from Dr. Aurelius, the control is key to my recovery along with staying practical and grounded.

Fortunately, I've hired and trained enough trustworthy personnel on all facets of the bakery, so the business will be the least of my worries while I'll be gone. I don't have to watch them as closely as my mother monitored us. The business is important to me, it's all I know, but I also needed to trust that my staff will do as good of a job as we did. I have put so much work into the bakery since reconstruction, I want the staff to maintain the same level of service, with or without me. District Twelve's residents will continue to have their supply of breads, rolls, sweets, and cakes in my extended absence.

The thought crosses my mind that there might be a rare complication in surgery or an unexpected reaction to anesthesia, and I try to quickly banish it. I have to come home to my wife, family, and business. I just have to.

My parents were firm believers in keeping the business within the family, and that's how the Capitol wanted it anyway, before the rebellion. In the new Panem, people needed jobs, and there was more work than Katniss and I could handle when I was finally able to get the bakery rebuilt. So we hired returning District Twelve residents as well as others familiar in the trade from other districts. The variety ended up an asset to our offered goods, since we now had the recipes from the other districts, including the bite-sized, square-shaped rolls from District Three, fish-shaped loaves tinted green with seaweed from District Four, and the crescent moon rolls dotted with seeds from District Eleven. Everyone wants a little taste of home. Conversely, tessera grain is no longer milled to discontinue any association or affiliation with the tesserae tickets or reaping bowls of the past. No one is interested in buying the flat, dense loaves or drop biscuits once made from our tessera grain rations anymore.

The bakery still stands on the same foundation but with a different design, since it wasn't necessary to have owners' quarters upstairs. I open the business on most weekdays, but I also like to be at home in the mornings when I can so that Katniss can have her time in the woods too.

Katniss is reliable at managing our home supplies, so I'm not worried there. It's almost a blessing that Buttercup finally passed before Cara was born ten years ago, or I'd have him on my list of concerns too. We hadn't replaced him with a new pet either, being unable to find it in our hearts to grow attached to another cat after our time with him.

I should maybe be more worried about how Katniss will do without me here for three weeks rather than how I'll handle being without her, but I know that she'll focus on the children. Since we were both raised by deficient mothers, we have raised our own children with affection, boundaries, and most of all, love. That's not to say that there aren't any fits or temper tantrums in our household ever—there are. But when a fit or foul up does occur, there is communication instead of the lack thereof or any sort of corporal punishment. Katniss and I both have days when it's hard to navigate parenting, but we do the best we can not to repeat any of our parents' transgressions. Katniss loves so fiercely though, she is a natural at motherhood in our partnership.

The thought crosses my mind that this will be our last chance for sex for quite some time too, and I plan on us having a lot of it. The other hope is that we'll both fall asleep too tired for nightmares after exhausting our bodies.

I catch Katniss by the elbow and spin her to me when I get home from the bakery, salacious thoughts on my mind. I plant a kiss on her collarbone.

"You know….They'll probably put me on pelvic rest for several weeks. It'll be like you after having the kids, or they will at least restrict our usual...activities," I breathe in her ear, sending goose bumps across her skin.

"Yeah, but you know damn well that we didn't wait as long as we were advised," she teases. "I think I jumped you after five weeks with Cara, and less than that with Patrick."

"I know, I know, but we'll have to try," I say, winking. "Besides, I'm sure there's other things we can do without engaging my hips."

"I guess you'll just have to fuck me good before you leave then," she taunts.

And I do. I fuck her every night before the train is scheduled to leave. In the shower, in the bed, in the kitchen in the odd moments we have alone. This isn't gentle lovemaking. I want her to feel me after I've left so that she can't cross her legs without being reminded of me. I want to take the feeling of being buried deep within her and the utter elation in her coming on my cock, squeezing and pulling me deeper within her. I fuck her until it hurts and then I fuck her some more. I fuck her through the pain, just because I know we'll both have to go without for a while.

We went without for so long, and once we found each other, once she told me it was 'real,' it was the truest way to express ourselves. No words or gestures, just connecting. I bite down on her shoulder when I feel my joints grinding on the inside because the pain helps me focus, helps hold me together.

It's a temporary solution to my nightmares, at least.

All travel and lodging arrangements for Haymitch and I are made through Effie, including our transport to and from the Capitol and our car from the train to the Training Center. She assures me that the lower floors have been renovated and I won't be able to discern anything of what was there before. It doesn't matter if they've rearranged it to look like a circus; I'll still know the horrors of that dungeon. The rooms in the upper tower, each district for each floor, have however remained the same for any Victors that might be traveling to the Capitol. Paragons of Panem was erected in the next building over, and the two are connected through pedestrian tunnels so that the medical staff will always be close by, when needed.

Effie relays all of this with her usual flourish and elan. Apparently her old role as Escort has translated into a Navigator in the Capitol. Effie also clears up payment for the surgery. The Hunger Games Commision will pay for it, since it seems that my Victor status still has its privileges. Apparently they needed to form a commission to make decisions regarding the old arenas and manage the needs of remaining Victors, Stylists, Trainers, and other supporting staffers.

She sends fresh paperwork over with an itinerary and other instructions for both of us.

We invite Haymitch over for dinner and deliver the latest news after I put the kids to bed. I can catch bits of their conversation, and it seems that Katniss is having a tough time eating crow over her previous words regarding permission to travel to the Capitol. I rejoin them and review the particulars of our travel and itinerary once in the Capitol.

"Haymitch, your terms as caregiver are to provide medical treatment that I cannot provide myself without assistance or administering medication that I can't administer myself without assistance," I read aloud from my paperwork on the couch.

"Haymitch as a caretaker? Ha!" Katniss exclaims from across the room. "You can't take his meds, Haymitch", she warns. "Promise you won't!"

Haymitch rolls his eyes at her while I keep reading.

"Additionally, a caregiver is needed to travel with the patient in order to provide assistance and care after surgery. The caregiver will assist with therapy, mobility, and activities for daily living for patient safety, as well as arranging therapy and follow up care," I continue to read.

With a deep sigh, he stands. "Whadda say I just get him back here in one piece and then you'll takeover, sweetheart?" Haymitch bargains. "And have a little faith in me, I kept both of you alive through worse."

"I really don't think you want us to rely on your past performance, Haymitch," she says as he walks out of the room and through the front door.

A beat passes after he slams the door before Katniss is at my feet.

"Peeta, you have to appeal this decision. They have to let me go, they just have to. Haymitch is not capable of these tasks. I mean...he's better now than he used to be. His house isn't filled with empty bottles and vomit, but come on," she says.

"Katniss, I don't like it any more than you do. He's no replacement for the care I know you would give me, but we have to work within these bounds," I say without self-pity.

Her head falls to my knees, and her arms wrap around my legs while she sobs, "I need you, I need to be there for you."

I take a breath to begin a long argument, but she stops me with a kiss. It all feels very familiar, only we're in our living room and not under a blazing white sun with a pink sky. She's perched on our hardwood floors, not damp sand. The memory threatens to erupt within me as she slides her lips and tongue against mine. I want to argue that the kids will need her and she'll need the kids, but there's no lightning, no Finnick to bring us back to our senses. I return the kiss eagerly, bringing her up to my sit fully in my lap.

Our kisses intensify and our hands begin to roam, from clutching one another fiercely to exploring under our clothes. I grab at her breasts through her shirt while she nips at my ear. Her small hands loosen my pants as I pull her lithe body closer to mine. I untangle her from her pants, and we couple in a frenzy. Her face is wet with tears as she rocks onto me, repeating that she loves me, she needs me. I echo her sentiments and feel my own tears start to fall. Our emotions overwhelm us in the ebb and flow of our connection, like the waves on the beach that night. I carry her limp body in my arms up the stairs to our bedroom and continue to make love to her all night long.

The next morning, I start the inevitable task of packing. I drag down my old suitcase, something I haven't needed in twenty years—since I came home after the rebellion. All of my prosthetic adjustments have been handled in the District. I've been told to pack comfortable, non-belted pants or shorts since the incision will stretch six inches perpendicular to my waistline. I'll be in the hospital for a week and Training Center for recovery for two weeks. I swallow that bitter pill anxiously. My nightmares have resurfaced, and I fear that they will only get worse as we head towards the Capitol. Last night, it was Cato. Forever twisting his sword through my thigh. Blood running down my leg, filling in the landscape around us and drowning us both in a red lake.

I pull out my softest short- and long-sleeved t-shirts and shorts, along with a few pairs of pants. I'm sure I'll be able to dictate the temperature settings in my room, but it won't be the same as an open window, allowing the faintest of chills to enter my room. I tuck away one of the blankets from our bed so I can carry the comforts of home with me. Katniss wrapped herself up in this one after our lovemaking last night, so it smells like her. I set aside my sketchbook too with several extra pencils. Perhaps drawing out my nightmares will help me again, as it did after the first Games. This will have to do since taking my some of my paints seems impractical. I don't have many more items to pack, save for my toiletries.

Making sure Haymitch is ready is another task altogether. When I check in on him mid-morning, it's clear that he hasn't started at all, and the train leaves tomorrow.

"This isn't a Victory Tour, Haymitch," I lecture. "There won't be any public appearances or stylists. You'll have to dress yourself in normal—hopefully clean—clothes."

"Alright, alright, I'll get on it," he grumbles.

"Nothing fancy, just stuff you wear every day, for three weeks. Effie says there's people that will do our laundry," I say as I leave him to it.

"Well, that's a blessing," I hear through the door as I hobble down his steps.


	6. Chapter 5: Katniss -- Family

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

xxxxx

The decision to have children did not come easily to Peeta and me. Well mostly me. After unexpectedly miscarrying a child when we were in our early twenties, we waited another five years before considering pregnancy again. We had been well-educated in birth control in the most uncomfortable way possible—by my mom sending brochures to Sae and having to talk through it. Nature took over though, and I became pregnant when I miscalculated my cycle. Once I learned the news and shared it with Peeta, I thought I was ready. I thought my body was ready, but once the option was removed I realized I was wholly not ready. I stayed in bed for several weeks. When I came out of the fog, I put that idea away on a shelf and relaxed. We both relaxed and focused on ourselves, on each other, on our home and garden. We let time pass and found the right moment to consider it again. Once the decision was made years later, I was pregnant within three months.

Cara is now ten, and Patrick is five years old. She's in her fourth year of school, while he's about to start school. They are a beautiful combination of our features and traits. She has most of my coloring, down to my olive skin and raven hair, but Peeta's blue eyes. It's so striking that some days I swear I'm staring at a darker Prim. Patrick has most of his father's features, even his freckles and unruly ashy blond waves, but with my gray eyes. They are the light of our lives.

When she came along, we knew that we had all the license in the world to name her what we wanted to. We researched and pored over books, looking for names that fit our family for either a boy or a girl. We found hers in the oddest of places, a Farmers' Almanac. Oranges are still uncommon in District Twelve and grow only in the southern tip of the District Eleven orchards, but after much deliberation we chose the name Cara, for the Cara Cara oranges we found in that old book. It carries the nostalgia of the oranges my father used to share among my family as a New Year's treat and Peeta's favorite color.

Patrick's name was chosen from an old world book as well, one that came from somewhere very green, as it was told. It honors my favorite color and it sounds harmonious with our family name. With the new Panem observances, I had my choice in whether I took Peeta's name after our customary District Twelve toasting. I didn't know at the time if we would have a family, but like the traditional marriage my parents had, I wanted to take my husband's name.

Now that we have both of them though, I know I couldn't live life without them—they will be my source of strength without Peeta here for a few weeks. They, along with Peeta, are the constant reminder that life can be good again.

Our next hurdle is telling them what's coming.

xxxxx

Peeta stays home to finish packing, bake sugar cookies for the kids, and make sure Haymitch is ready. He wants to be home by lunch time and to be there when Cara returns from school. She's old enough to walk by herself now, so we let her have that same sense of independence I had when Prim and I walked home everyday. Patrick has just woken up from his afternoon nap and is ambling down the stairs when she skips through the door. She runs to her daddy, happy to see him already home. He's also set out the plate of sugar cookies to soften the news. They're soon joined by Patrick, Peeta's lap taking the brunt of the affection.

After ten hugs and kisses each, as well as a few of the sugar cookies, the kids settle down on the couch, flanked by Peeta and me.

"Cara, Patrick, Dad and I have some news for you," I start, ensuring that I have their full attention.

"Are you having another baby?" Cara asks. "The last time we sat down for news like this, you had Patrick in your belly, Mommy."

I take a moment to recover from the shock of her observation, and it's true—it was five years ago, and I marvel at her memory.

"No, it's not another baby," I continue. "Do you remember how Daddy and I went to see Dr. Mills the other day?"

Nodding heads and earnest expressions from the kids allow me to continue.

"Well, Daddy's hip is in worse shape than we thought, and he needs to go to the Capitol to get it fixed," I say, waiting for their reaction.

Their mouths hang agape while I continue. "Daddy and Haymitch will be gone for a few weeks for the surgery and recovery, and Haymitch will take care of Daddy," I explain.

Cara wrinkles her nose at this notion and gives me a very pointed look.

"I know, I know, I wish I could go but it's more important for me to stay here, with you two. Okay?" I say. It's the only truth I know now, anyway.

"Can we feed Uncle Haymitch's geese while he's gone?" Patrick asks, his small voice full of hope.

"Of course we can," I smile. He loves those damn geese. I catch Cara rolling her eyes at this. She's not a big fan of them, like me.

"When I come home, I'll have a new hip, and I'll still be recovering, so you'll need to be gentle with me," Peeta says.

"Like a baby goose?" Patrick says in understanding.

"Yes, like a baby goose, but I'll get stronger everyday, and before you know it, I'll be better than I was before!" Peeta says.

"Cara, you've been very quiet. What are you thinking?" I ask.

She folds and refolds her hands in her lap. "Well, the Capitol doesn't seem like a good place to go," she starts.

Peeta's eyes cut to mine as I take a deep breath.

"We learned in school that the city was reconstructed and made better for everybody, but is that really true? You and Daddy don't seem to like it very much," she says.

"It's true, we haven't been back for a long, long time. It wasn't important to us because our home was here in District Twelve," I explain honestly.

"The doctors and Effie tell us that it's a much nicer place now, with good people," Peeta adds to assure her.

"When do you leave?" she asks him.

"Tomorrow," Peeta answers quietly.

She considers this and frowns, whipping around to him, "Why didn't you tell me sooner? You knew you might have to go!" She burrows into Peeta, her little arms wrapped around him.

"We just received the final schedule yesterday, honey, or else we would have told you sooner. We promise," I say as calmly as I can, recognizing her panic as my own.

"But Haymitch knows! Why didn't I know?" she screeches.

"At first we thought that I'd be going—," I start, realizing it's going to be bad, no matter what I say next.

"So both of you were going to leave us?" she stands and stomps her little feet. She hops up, flips the plate of sugar cookies off the table, and runs to her room.

I follow her up while Peeta stays with Patrick.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you all of it sooner, Cara," I say from her doorway, acknowledging my own failure.

"Don't I rate the truth from you?" she yells at me, and suddenly it's her father's pleading eyes that make me feel like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over me.

"Yes, Cara, you do. You're old enough to handle it, " I say and gulp for air, the dust from that District Eleven attic filling my lungs. "You'll be fully informed from now on." I move across the room to hold her.

"I better be," she says with a hiccup while I stroke her hair.

We cling to each other in her room for a while. Her tears dry, and my breathing settles. We rejoin the boys downstairs, and she hugs her dad.

"I'm sorry that I yelled and ruined the cookies," she announces to all of us.

"Thank you for apologizing, Cara. I'm sorry too. This is hard on all of us, you know," Peeta rationalizes.

She nods. "How long will you be gone, Daddy?" She asks with another hiccup.

"I'll be in the hospital a week, then in a different room in the Capitol for another two weeks, then I'll be home. Once I'm here, it'll be another three to five weeks until I'm walking on my own again. Or so they say. You never know though, honey, I could come home dancing a jig," he says as he elbows her in the side.

After our talk concludes, Patrick draws a picture for Peeta to take with him. Peeta tucks it inside his sketchbook for safe keeping. Cara insists on being in all of our phone or video transmissions. We agree, as long as it's not beyond her bedtime.

Peeta's train leaves late the next morning with Haymitch in tow. The children said their good-byes at the house and before school.

"Promise me you'll call when you get there, or as soon as you get to a phone, and promise you'll call or transmit every night. We need to see your face every day Peeta. I'm serious," I intone, holding him tightly.

"I know, I will. I need to see you too. I may need to see you more," he says, pressing his forehead into mine.

"C'mon kid, train's leavin'," Haymitch barks.

I release him with one more kiss. Haymitch is already on board as Peeta shuffles to the train. He turns back for one last look as I touch my three middle fingers from my left hand to the lips he just finished kissing and hold it out to him. I'm saying good-bye to someone I love.

It's harder than I thought it would be, to watch him leave. I stand there as he boards and remain unmoving until it disappears beyond the horizon. I've always walked, if not run, away from him. I did it in the jungle the night we were separated and in the Capitol, on the way to Snow's mansion, and now it's my turn to watch him leave. I turn away from the empty train depot, the tears that I've held back finally falling freely. I don't bother to wipe them away. It's not the first tearful good-bye at the train depot, and it won't be the last. I make the trek home and relieve Sae of Patrick duty. I just want to curl up with my son, so we retire for an early nap. I'm going to need my strength for my mother's arrival anyway. As we drift off, I notice that my favorite blanket is missing from our bed.

Mom is set to arrive tomorrow from District Four. I recognize that having her around will help, though there will be some adjustments. She'll have to help in the mornings once I start hunting again. It's too cold to hunt now, but it'll be warming up in the three weeks that Peeta is gone. I can only imagine the slightly awkward conversations that will ensue as mom gets tuned in to our routine, trying to fill the void that Peeta has left in his absence.

xxxxx

Patrick and I make the walk together to meet my mom at the train depot while Cara is at school. Since it's early in the month, the trains are full of supplies, and the depot is crowded with District Twelve residents. I spot some of the bakery workers here to pick up monthly shipments of flour and sugar.

In the weeks before Peeta returned to District Twelve, and on some days after that, I felt myself sinking into the depths my mother found herself in after my father's death. I employed my coping mechanisms to pull myself back up to the surface. Having Peeta around helped. When we started our family, we made efforts to stay positive; we still do. There were still bad days, but the last thing I wanted to become was her. Since becoming a wife and mother myself, I understand the depths of my mom's issues more and more. That level of empathy should help me communicate better with her, but that's still a struggle.

My mom steps off the train and can't immediately see Patrick and me waiting for her; she's too busy looking for ghosts. I know being here puts her on edge, and it always takes her a few days to adjust, so I try not to judge her pinched face and shifting eyes too harshly.

The crowd breaks up a little, and she finally sees us waving. She walks towards us, undoubtedly smiling for Patrick's benefit.

"Well hello there, Patrick, your pictures just don't do you justice. What a handsome six year old you are!" she says.

"He's five, Mom," I say tightly, drowned out by Patrick's response.

"I'm five, Grandma!" he giggles.

"Five! Well you start school soon, then don't you?"

"Next year, Grandma!" Patrick adds with enthusiasm as he grabs her hand to walk home.

"I remember when little Finn was about to start school, but goodness me, that was nearly fifteen years ago," she rambles.

"He should be, what, twenty by now?" I ask, indifferent.

"Yes, he'll turn twenty this spring," she adds.

"So you really haven't been around them much for a few years."

"Oh no, I still have dinner with them once a week."

"That's nice," I say and bite my lip to keep my mouth shut. I can't start the first day off on the wrong foot with her. I'm screaming internally, though that I would have liked that kind of flesh and blood parent spending that much time with us. Instead, we have a drunken mentor that chases geese.

xxxxx

"Mom, here's the list I had started for the kids to give you an idea of what our days are like here," I say and offer her my handwritten notes. She takes them and gives them a once over.

"Katniss, I think I've got it," she says, casting the list aside. "When does Cara get home?"

"Don't disregard—" I start.

"If you want to discount my years of parenting you, then maybe you want to check my references with Annie and little Finn?" she interrupts. "Because I think I can handle my grandchildren."

"Well, isn't that convenient, that they'd vouch for you," I snip.

"Katniss, Annie asks for help. You don't ask, so I assume you have this covered," she sighs.

"No, it seems like you've really adopted them," I say in a clipped tone.

"I haven't, but they are there, and you haven't ever come to me. I can only take off so much time in a year to visit District Twelve."

"Because I can't leave," I grit out, still disgusted with the court's ruling.

"Regardless, you've always had it together better than I did, Katniss. You're a terrific mother," she says.

I nod my head and walk outside for a moment, the cold air stealing my breath. It sounds like I've won, but it doesn't feel that way.


	7. Chapter 6: Peeta -- Surgery

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

...

We travel to the Capitol on the first day of March. The first obvious difference is the trains. Gone are the opulent interiors, furniture, and food service. No mahogany tables for Katniss to stab with her steak knife. Haymitch doesn't even bother looking around for liquor bottles stashed away in cabinets as we speed towards the Capitol. Instead, they have been designed for mass transit and travel between districts. Well, for everyone but Katniss, I think bitterly. Her face nearly broke me as I boarded the train. I watched her grow smaller in the distance as the train sped away.

I check in with Katniss and the family upon arrival and getting settled in my old room at the Training Center for a few nights before I move to the hospital. The kids are intrigued at seeing my room on the video transmission, so I show them around the best I can. Katniss asks offhand if I saw her green blanket before I left, and I begrudgingly pull it out of my bag to show her that I'd taken it. It was the only way I could think to bring her with me, even in the smallest way possible. She shrugs and shakes her head, offering me a hint of a smile that lets me know she approves.

I tell her about the train and the people too—no tattoos or brightly colored hair. No garish makeup, at least not that Haymitch or I have seen while traveling or on the streets. After our transmission ends, I pull out my sketch book to relax.

On the first night, my nightmares intensify from the ones I was having back home. Fears unearthed about meeting doctors, medicinal smells, bright white rooms with shiny metals bars. Syringes.

After very little sleep, my appointments start first thing in the morning. They do more x-rays, standing this time, which is more comfortable. They send me through an MRI tube, which I vaguely recollect from District Thirteen. The machine clicks and whirs all around me. Haymitch tells me I've done it before, but I don't like it. It will check for the viability of the bones at the joint, to see how much prosthesis they may have have to add to the damaged bones.

Haymitch and I meet with nurse administrator, nurse practitioner, and the hospitalist, Dr. Niels. They request a blood transfusion approval, which will require a blood draw, as well as check my vitals, current pain level, etc. They advise me to take meds at at level five.

The snap of plastic gloves brings me back to the reality of a syringe aimed at me for a blood draw. My heart rate increases and blood pressure spikes on the monitor. Even after all these years, I still don't like needles. After the blood draw is complete and my arm has been cleaned and bandaged, they run through the final precautions.

"You should not drink alcohol tonight or the night before your surgery," Dr. Niels warns.

"Not a problem...for me," I say. "Him," motioning to my caretaker, "on the other hand…" I finish.

Laughs all around the room don't put my mind at ease. Dr. Niels instructs me to arrive in loose clothes, without jewelry, and to take a shower tonight and in the morning with a chlorhexidine wash. They give me a set of brown towels, because the strong cleanser will stain white towels.

"You'll also be given a local shot that will numb your hip, for the most part. Expect that to wear off after three to four days. You'll also be prescribed Morphling for the pain."

We review my records, at least the ones I'm cleared to see. I'm asked several more questions about nausea, changes to vision, recent surgery, any open wounds, and dizziness.

The second to last appointment is with a physical therapist named Serode. She gives us an idea of what to expect following the surgery. She warns me about deep bending and bringing my chest to my knees. I'm also not supposed to extend my legs too far behind me to reduce the risk of dislocation. The last precaution is to avoid tendonitis, so I'm to not do any repetitive hind-bending or flexing activities like leg lifts or marching. No worries there. She also advises me how to walk, postoperatively. They will give me a walker to support these steps and eventually a cane.

"Heel toe," she says. "Surgical leg first, then good leg."

I repeat the steps over in my head, hoping to set it in my memory for after surgery tomorrow—if I'm up and walking already, like they say I will be.

Our last appointment is to finally meet the man that will be cutting me open, Dr. Wurtz.

We wait in a smaller room, similar to the one where Dr. Mills and Dr. Shaw first told Katniss and me the bad news. Intricate anatomy graphics of hip, knee, shoulder, and elbow injuries adorn the walls of the room. Muscles and bones are named with leader lines. And there it is, _**Coxa**_ , written in neat script out of the side of a bracket around the acetabulum, ilium, ischium, and pubis. The bones of the hip joint.

"Mr. Mellark, you have severe arthritis of the hip joint, and I'm recommending a full replacement of your left hip joint," he says.

I've mentally prepared myself for this so my expression remains neutral.

"We will start the replacement with an anterior incision, pulling the muscles apart, replacing the acetabulum and femoral head and femoral stem with ceramic and titanium prosthetics. The MRI indicated that the rest of your femur is in good shape, so we won't have to go too far down the stem. We'll use a glue internally and steri-strips externally to put it back together. The last step will be two layers of surgical tape over the incision," he finishes.

"I'm used to prosthesis, Dr. Wurtz," I remind him when given the opportunity speak.

"I know, Mr. Mellark. That's what makes your case so interesting. Look at your x-rays, " he motions to the screen where they are displayed. "Your left hip is deformed and flattened, and there are bone spurs where the two have rubbed together incorrectly for the last twenty years. Your right hip joint is perfect, so after the prosthesis, you'll be able to do whatever you want. Your lower leg prosthesis does pose several issues, though."

"Such as?"

"Well, your rehabilitation for one. Most hip replacement recipients have two sound legs, so the challenge will be getting you walking as soon as possible on your artificial leg with your new hip," he replies. "It will definitely take longer than the average patient without a prosthesis."

"Okay, I assume I'll talk more with the physical therapists about that," I say.

"Right. The other challenge is that our normal joint replacement patients get a CECT unit to prevent blood clots in their lower extremities after surgery. That's continuous enhanced circulation therapy. It's basically compression sleeves fitted onto your lower legs to maintain circulation. Without your lower left leg, we had to design an abbreviated unit to fit around your kneecap. It's the first of its kind," he finishes.

"I'm not comfortable being another test subject, Doctor."

"Would you be more comfortable with blood clots?" he returns.

He's met with my silent stare.

"No, I didn't think so," he quips. "Let me tell you about the table too..."

The surgeon continues, obviously proud of his accomplishments, techniques, and innovations for hip replacement. I try to pay attention, but I hadn't considered how my prosthesis would impact the recovery.

"My surgical process will eliminate the need to cut through any muscles, since this anterior approach goes through a natural space between the front of hip joint. My special table will also allow for instant x-rays to precisely place the new hip components and, therefore, more consistent restoration of your hip anatomy.

I nod along to his spiel, staying engaged with eye contact at least, since he's more impressed with his table than I'll ever be. To me, it's just a means to an end.

"It's just one of the tools in my arsenal, and it'll get you walking without assistive devices sooner. Your physical therapists will encourage you to place your full weight on your operative hip as soon as you're able," he finishes.

Haymitch and I spend the following day around the Capitol. I haven't been back to the Avenue of Tributes since the fateful day Katniss shot President Coin. As soon I was done in the recovery center with Dr. Aurelius and cleared for travel, I had no interest in sticking around. I didn't know what I'd be coming back to, but I was worried about Katniss. She looked so haunted, so broken that day, I just wanted to help her when I was healed myself. The avenue has been preserved, with markers that describe different Games, their Tributes, and notes on the Victors. I've read that battlefields from previous wars were memorialized in this way in ancient times, so this must be the modern version of that.

That evening, I access the rooftop where Katniss and I rested and watched the sunset twenty years ago. The irony isn't lost on me that it was the day before we entered the 75th Games. Instead of the jungle, I'll be wheeled into yet another surgery at the Capitol's mercy. I sketch the view as the sun dips below the horizon and wish that she was here with me. She would find a way to comfort me with a simple touch. I'm always better when I realize she's right there next to me.

I go through the recommended pre-op process that night. I wash with the provided antibacterial soap. I have a ton of pre-surgery nerves and am headed for another night of poor sleep. I consider a sedative they suggested, hell I consider having a stiff drink with Haymitch even though they said not to. I know my nightmares will keep me awake most of the night, and I'm already missing Katniss more than I can bear. The only thing that will calm me at this point is her voice, so I take a risk that she isn't already asleep to call to her. After a few rings, I know I will have woken her up; it is later in District Twelve after all, and she would have had to come downstairs. I don't know why I didn't think to have a phone installed upstairs before I left.

"Peeta?" she croaks when she picks up the line, her voice breaking at the end.

"I'm sorry, I know it's late—" I start.

"I couldn't sleep either," she says on the line, and I can hear her struggle to maintain her composure.

"I'm so scared, Katniss," I whisper into the phone.

She take a deep breath and sighs with me, "I know. I am too," she says.

"Will you just talk to me? Tell me about your day? Your voice is so calming," I ask her.

As she recites her daily activities, I listen and let the sound of her voice wash over me. It isn't long before I feel my eyelids drooping and hear her speech falter too.

"Goodnight, Katniss," I mutter.

"Good morning, Peeta. I love you," she mumbles before ending our call.

...

After my midnight call to Katniss, I sleep fairly well. As well as possible anyway. I dress myself and head to the surgical entrance of Paragons of Panem, Haymitch following behind in my shadow. I exchange my clothes for a gown and shoes for a pair of brightly colored non-slip socks. I detach my prosthesis and keep it with my belongings. I chuckle to myself at how much Patrick would like this sock, if he were here. The smile I'm imaging on his little face calms me and goes a long way to ease the anxieties I felt throughout the night without Katniss physically there to comfort me.

They check my vitals, ensure that I haven't had anything to eat or drink after midnight, and administer the anesthesia. It's stronger than sleep syrup, and the tendrils of sleep drag me down into a dark abyss.

...

I wake with a start, acutely unaware of my surroundings. Have I been in this room before? It doesn't seem familiar. My ears are ringing and finally pop. I can hear Haymitch snoring in the corner of this room.

"Hey," I croak, my hands flying to my throat to check for tenderness. I notice a breathing tube, feeding oxygen through my nostrils in my inspection.

"Erm… They said your throat would be sore, from the intubation," he says, motioning to my voice.

"Was I?" I sputter and clear my throat, "Was I awake when they brought me in from Recovery?" I manage.

"Yeah, kind of. You were trying to tell a joke, but your speech was all slurred, so it was most amusing to me," Haymitch replied. "We've been in here a few hours. I took a nap."

"Well, I'm glad I'm here to entertain you, even if I don't remember that," I say, my voice slowly returning. "This whole day after surgery has been mostly a blur."

They have moved me to my official hospital room, where I'll stay for a few days. Haymitch was encouraged to stay overnight as my caretaker, but he took one look at the fold out couch and declined the offer. I know he'll be close enough anyway, and he promises to stick around for meals.

My vitals are checked regularly and medications delivered promptly once I'm settled. They have prescribed three different pain pills, including Morphling, and three different medications to counteract the other side effects of pain management. They also have me on two different blood thinners. They threw in a muscle relaxer, too, that I make the mental note to hide from Haymitch once I've been discharged from the hospital. All of these meds can cause dizziness, so it's a good thing I also have a rolling walker in the corner of the room.

I lift my gown to examine the surgical site. I can't see much from this angle, other than the tape extending down my left thigh and the bright purple sock on my right foot. Everything feels fine, but I know I'm still under the effects of Morphling and other narcotics they gave me.

"Can I call Katniss?" I ask, turning to Haymitch.

"I already did, boy, twice. She sounded like she had her hands full," he says.

"Okay, maybe later," I mumble and close my eyes again.

My first, of what I assume many, physical therapists arrive later in the afternoon.

"Mr. Mellark, I'm Davil—and we're going to get you up for a walk!" He's older than I thought a physical therapist would be, with a crown of white hair and glasses.

He moves the bedside table, sheets, and blanket away to reveal my right leg with the compression sleeve cuffing my leg between my knee and ankle. My left thigh is mostly exposed, with a cup-shaped compression cuff around my stub. He clears a path between me and the walker. My thighs look scrawny and pale against the white sheets as I nudge myself closer to the edge of the bed.

"Nice and easy, Mr. Mellark. Just reach for the walker and pull yourself up slowly," he instructs as Haymitch looks on, mild curiosity painted on his face.

I grasp the handle bar of the walker, sliding it closer to edge of the bed. I extend my left leg until my socked right foot touches the floor. I pull up to stand erect on my right leg while the air tubes hang tethered to the unit. I push the walker forward, hold my breath, expecting excruciating pain when I slide my right foot forward to step.

Exhaling, I'm amazed at how simple that first step is. I lean a little on the left side, just to correct my balance. My eyes shoot up at Davil, and then to Haymitch. I refocus on my steps and take a few more to demonstrate my new mobility. Davil declares me 'ad libitum' so that I can maneuver around my room with the walker, with Haymitch's supervision. It's good because that means I won't have to call an aide every time I want to walk about the room or take a piss.

A few hours after surgery, the first drug wears off, and I miss it immediately. My incision burns and itches, worse than what I recall of the scabs left by the poison fog in the Quarter Quell. After that, they give me two Morphling pills every four hours. I can still maneuver around room with walker, but it doesn't feel nearly as easy anymore.

After Haymitch leaves for the night, I pick up the room phone to dial home. I don't think I can handle a video transmission in this pain, so a call will have to suffice.

"Hey, I made it through the worst part," I tell her since it's past the kids' bedtime.

"We heard. Haymitch called us a few times throughout the day. I'm so glad to hear your voice though."

"I really miss you. I really wish you were here." I'm choking back tears, and I'm sure she is too. "Tell me about your day, tell me something good," I implore. "The distraction will be good for me."

"Funny you should say that. As we were biding our time between calls from Haymitch, Cara picked a fight that evolved into another temper tantrum with her grandmother, and it escalated," she describes. I can hear her tight smile over the line.

"What was it about?"

"Homework, of all things. Apparently Cara didn't want to start anything until we'd heard from you, and my mother thought it would be better for her to concentrate on something else," she says.

I can feel the tension brewing between Katniss and her mom. "Did she break anything this time?"

"Thankfully, no. But my mom is testing my patience. I was outside with Patrick, visiting the geese, while this was happening," she says.

"Well at least they're talking now?" I say, trying to make her laugh. It's probably a longshot though.

"Yeah, they made up, but it seems like it's just a matter of time before something sets either one of them off. Mom is good at finding buttons to push," Katniss gripes.

"Well I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, maybe to alleviate some of that," I say ruefully.

"No, it's fine—it won't be too much longer, right?" she asks.

"Two and half more weeks, Katniss," I estimate. "Hopefully it'll pass quickly?"

She sighs. "I doubt it."

"Hey, I'll be home before you know it," I say to bring her back on the line. I can picture her, head in her hands.

"I know, it's just...she's hurting more than she's helping when it causes discord in the house," she whispers, likely afraid that her mom will overhear her. The guest room is on the first floor, down the hall from the phone.

"I really miss you and either wish I was there or that you could be here, we would do well with some quality time together," I offer.

"Me too, wish I was with you."

"I'm so tired, Katniss," he says.

"Go to sleep," she tells me, and the moment feels familiar, but all of my energy has been sapped from my body.

I murmur in agreement and tell her good-bye.

...

My sleep is rough, punctuated by pods being triggered around me and the staff checking my vitals. I am visited by all of the same faces over the next few days, as well as meeting a few more within the PT staff. In addition to Davil, other members of my team lead the PT sessions in the hospital.

I have PT in the hospital to practice stepping up and down a short stack of risers and getting into a tub. They teach me a series of stretches that can be done in a chair or bed. I learn a few standing exercises on the second day that focus on re-engaging the manipulated muscles and regaining my balance. I'm supposed to perform these activities each hour while resting, ten repetitions of each. They urge me verbally to repeat the steps to soft tissue management so that it will stick in my memory better, which includes rest, ice, compression, and elevation. The acronym cements the process in my mind.

I take my first shower after two days of sweat and anxiety in the hospital room. They place a shower chair in the stall for my safety and comfort so that I can keep the prosthesis off while

I heal. I wash up everywhere and note in a moment of lucidity that I must be on a shit ton of painkillers because nothing happens when I pass over my dick with the washcloth. Whatever they have me on has completely tanked any sensation or enjoyment out of that. I could have been washing my elbow, and I wouldn't have known the difference. I note the iodine on my skin for future washes. I'm still too tired for now.


	8. Chapter 7: Peeta -- Recovery

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

...

After a few more days in the hospital, the staff moves me back to my room in the Training Center. Food, water, ice packs, medications, and clean laundry is delivered promptly by staff. The facility no longer exclusively employs Avoxes, although there are still some here. After twenty years, there are bound to still be some in the workforce, though the barbaric practice was discontinued with President Snow's demise. For the most part, the new staff at the Training Center is friendly and supportive.

I'm also grateful, for once, that they have access to these rooms. As much as I dislike being in this vulnerable condition, I wouldn't be able to get up to open the door for every single visit for my frequent needs. Privacy is a thing of the past in this recovery, much like it was in District Thirteen. At least there aren't viewing windows, and the bathroom doors lock so I can verify that, while my new hip seems to be working fine, the rest of me is still out of sorts.

I fill my sketchbook with my nightmares from the hospital and being trapped in the narcotic haze of the meds they put me on during and after surgery. Every time I was awakened in the middle of the night for a vitals check, I thought it was another one of the Tributes, Victors, mutts, or other dangers from my nightmares attacking me. Even in the tedious recovery from my hijacking, it was essential that I be fully awake when attended to so that I was aware that I wasn't being manipulated, tortured, or injected. The new staff here has been similarly advised, no doubt from Dr. Aurelius, to turn on a soft light first before shaking me awake, otherwise they could find themselves in a choke hold.

Loud sirens interrupt my fitful sleep the second night in the Training Center, and it takes me a moment to place myself without a cornucopia for guidance. I push up out of bed, grab my walker, and struggle to get into the hallway. Haymitch has just stepped out of his room too, and we regard each other in confusion.

"Is it a real fire?' I yell. "I don't smell smoke."

"Hell if I know? I can't tell the difference between real fires and the synthetic ones," he shrugs.

"Well, if it's a real fire, how in the fuck am I going to get down twelve flights of stairs?" I yell back at him.

The last bit comes across loud and clear when the sirens stop blaring.

"False alarm," I exhale, thankful not to have to negotiate all of those stairs. I've yet to practice on more than three risers, so I need to make that a big priority in my recovery.

"Yeah, yeah. The odds were in your favor this time. I'm going back to bed," he gripes.

My old room and the different parts of the building hold so many memories, but I am trying to make new ones with every stretch and step on my new joint. I haven't returned to the roof yet, but Katniss is there across the dining table from me, insisting that I can throw hundred-pound sacks of flour or lounging on the sofa, choosing Wiress and Beetee as allies. She's with me on the couches in front of the screens as we wait for our scores from the Gamemakers. Even without the fear of the Games looming overhead, this place is ominous and filled with ghosts. It's hard to heal somewhere I'll always feel threatened or haunted. Haymitch must feel it too because he mostly stays in his own room. He dutifully shows up for all PT sessions in the old Training Room. He keeps me company with games of chess between sessions and naps.

The same PT staff comes to the Training Center to maintain staff familiarity for my sake, with the addition of one. A dark-haired girl named Melania, who wears a long braid over her shoulder, shows up on the second day. I suppose that the hairstyle is still popular even though it was outlawed by President Snow during the rebellion. Young women still look up to my wife, even though we're just pages in a history book now. The thought makes me smile, at how far we've all come.

Davil instructs me to work through the pain of stretches to loosen up. To that end, he suggests walking up and down the hallway first, before stretching and exercising. Melania also puts me on a resistance pedal unit at the beginning of her sessions. I find that it works faster than walking. It's her that first suggests using my prosthesis in PT sessions since I'm showing such great progress. I didn't expect to be walking with my artificial leg so soon, but I would rather work it out here before returning home.

Every time I pass Katniss' old door, my heart pangs for her. She's told me enough about her last stay here that I know she'll never really want to come back voluntarily, even if she could. It doesn't help that she's everywhere I turn, and the sessions with Melania aren't helping, with that braid flipping over her shoulder. Katniss and I talk nightly, but it's not the same as her palm on my shoulder or hand on my arm, bolstering me to push through.

The hours between PT sessions are regimented too. I rest for most of the hour, stretching and increasing my range of motion for ten minutes, and walk for the rest of the hour. I push the distance a little farther each time. I can't bring myself to watch the vapid Capitol programming on TV. I only saw a baking competition in passing, and it held my attention long enough until it was time to stretch again. Commercials for Plutarch's singing show air as well. I didn't realize he was still doing that. I absently wonder if Caesar Flickerman still has a job, or if he is too much a reminder of the old times.

It's only been eighteen days since I left home, but I look gaunt compared to what I looked like when I left. Purple shadows hang under my eyes, evidence of my nightmares. I feel ten to twenty pounds lighter, but haven't stepped on a scale since my first day here. My skin is still yellow around the incision, either from bruising or that strong iodine. Even the powerful Capitol soaps can't get it off after repeated showers.

My nightmares intensify further. I'm choked, dragged, and smothered by faceless mutts. Katniss, in her red suit, laughs at me because I can't get hard anymore. My children accept Gale as their new father because I've died in surgery. Finnick pushes me back into the black oil after I threw Mitchell off of me in the Capitol. Jackson sends me out to face the lizard mutts in the sewers first.

Having these people tear me down or put me in the face of certain death, night after night, wears on me. The Games have already changed me and these visions jab under my flesh, fresh streams of venom through my veins, making me question everything.

In my next round of night terrors, I wrap a raven braid around my wrist, tightening my hold onto my prey's glistening back. Her will and body surrender, and I fuck her mercilessly. Only her profile is not right, and I wake myself from the misery.

...

I request an appointment with Dr. Aurelius when I know I can't fight the nightmares on my own anymore. I pace in my room with my walker until I hear his knock at the door, and I call for him to enter. I navigate to the sitting area and ease into one of the more comfortable chairs. He's in his sixties now, with more gray hair, but he's still sharp and can tell in one look that I'm not okay.

"Peeta…."

I feel in his tone the disappointment in my unraveling progress, but I think he can help me cope with the burden of being here again and dealing with all of this.

"Let's start with the sounds," I begin. "Noises in the Training Center scare me, heightening my paranoia about being here again. My muscle spasms are bad too, waking me out of my sleep if my nightmares aren't," I say.

"Okay, we can manage some of that with white noise machines until you get home," he starts.

"The CECT wrapped around my legs doesn't help either. I waken frequently in the night from the noises it emits. Sometimes it's screaming mutts haunting me, sometimes it is snakes wrapped around my leg, constricting tighter with every twist."

"I do have to say, I'm surprised I wasn't brought in sooner—given where you are staying, and all of the narcotics they have you on for the pain. How are you really doing, Peeta? Concern is etched across his face as he considers my situation.

I slide my sketch book across the table in my room to show him. He's used to me communicating my innermost thoughts through this medium. He flips through the pages with practiced patience, trained not to react to the horrors within.

"I've reviewed your surgical and hospital records. You're right, your heart rate and BP spike frequently during the night…" he notes.

"Well, at least it's on record and not just my imagination," I say.

"It's not. By my understanding of your surgery and subsequent rehabilitation, the CECT unit will be going home with you to ensure continuous circulation and reduce the chances for blood clots while you travel, you're just going to have to deal with the noise a little while longer."

"Yeah, they say I'm supposed to wear it 20 out of the 24 hours in a day, but I can't stand the thing."

"For the twitching in your sleep, we'll up your electrolytes. Make sure you take a muscle relaxer before you go to bed, too.

"Dr. Aurelius, I really hoped to be decreasing my medications by now."

"I know, Peeta, I know. I'm not going to bother prescribing you a sedative," he replies, "these will help you sleep better though, so you can heal faster, and get back to your regular routine."

"What about the nightmares?" I ask.

"You and Katniss have your lists still, right? Your lists of things that are good?" He waits for me to nod before continuing. "I would think you can add to it by now. Recite your list to yourself and go through your breathing exercises. These should help ease your mind before you get ready for bed," he instructs.

"Yes, but that seems like a low level response to the shit I'm going through."

"Then tell me more about your struggle, Peeta."

"It's not enough. What you're recommending… Me being back here. It just shows me what I've feared all along. That they really did change me. I became something I wasn't."

"To my knowledge, you haven't had a flashback since Katniss' pregnancy with Cara. Is there more you haven't told me?" Dr. Aurelius pushes.

"No, I haven't held anything back in our annual updates," I say.

"Then what is it? What do you think is bringing on the nightmares?" Dr. Aurelius asks.

"You and I and Katniss worked hard to get back to a new, different normal. But I was never the same as I was before the first Games, or even before my second Games, before….," I drift off, lost in thought. I shake my head and start again. "Being back in this space helps me see that. Accept it. I'm not the same. I'm not necessarily better, but I'm not that scared sixteen and seventeen year old anymore." I have a new hip to prove it.

"Well, that's certainly true. You've seen it yourself though; this place isn't the same either. It's changed along with you and the entire nation. You've met and had positive experiences with your entire team. No one is here to hurt you, only help."

"I guess old habits die hard, doc," I breathe out.

"I know," he sighs. "Just look at your mentor."

"True, but I don't want that to be in twenty-five years. I told her that it would be okay, that we'd have each other. I haven't lied to her yet, and I don't want to start now," I say.

"Interesting. If you haven't lied yet, are there things you haven't told her now?"

"Ah...um," I hesitate. I haven't even articulated these thoughts to myself, so it's hard to put them together for Dr. Aurelius. "I didn't tell her that one of my physical therapists wears her hair in the same braid."

"I see. Why didn't you?"

"I didn't think it was important. I didn't think about it until you mentioned it. I didn't think she'd want to know about Capitol women copying her style still. Especially one that's treating me."

"Are you going to tell her?"

"I haven't decided. Maybe. I think it would be better to tell her about Melania in person rather than over a Capitol line," I say.

"You keep making this distinction, Capitol versus not Capitol. Have these last few weeks not shown you that there could possibly be less to fear here?"

"They have," I say in a flat tone.

"I'd like to pick back up on our weekly calls, Peeta. At least during your recovery back at home. I'd also like to see you before you leave," Dr. Aurelius advises.

...

Melania leads PT again in my final days here. I have trouble balancing my jumble of thoughts about her presence and my physical therapy. She instructs me to get on the resistance pedal unit before completing a series of stretches while lying down on adjustable table. I note the bruising and iodine that still discolor my thigh and self-consciously tug my shorts down lower.

Before surgery, these maneuvers would have felt crunchy, but now it's smooth. We run through a few more exercises, sitting up on the table one where I sit on the table edge. I really like the resistance for hamstring curls, where I pull and relax, while her hands are clasped around ankle of my prosthesis. Pushing against something, anything feels like I'm fighting through the pain.

"Lastly, we're going to try you out with a cane," she says, as she offers me the elongated stick with a curved handle and a rubber foot, different from the slim, metal contraption they gave me after my first Hunger Games. I guess this one isn't meant to be camera-ready. "It's adjustable, so just be sure to line up the handle with thumb bone, on your right hand," she instructs.

I take the cane in my right hand and use it when my left artificial foot hits the ground.

"You can use the cane around the house, the walker for longer distances, and really, I foresee you walking without any assistance after three weeks," she comments.

"Three weeks, even with my prosthesis?" I ask.

"Yes, with these exercises and practices with the cane or walker, you're slowly building up your strength and balance for walking," she says with encouragement.

Thank you, Melania," I say and reach out to grab her shoulder for support.

She smiles at the contact. "You'll do great back home, Peeta. I just know it," she promises.

"I guess this is our last session, then?" I ask just before detecting a blush blooming across her face.

"You're definitely ready. I can give you my personal contact information, should you have any questions or need anything...later," she adds.

"Oh thank you, I'll just contact Effie, though, if anything is amiss. I trust her to get me in touch with the appropriate staff member," I say.

"Yes, right well, good-bye then," she pipes.

"Thank you, Melania. You've been the hardest working member of the team to get me on both feet again. I truly appreciate your thorough work," I say, when all other words fail me.

"Oh, you're welcome. It's been my pleasure," she says.

I wasn't lying, I just did not know how to articulate my thoughts without it coming out wrong or misleading. Melania is one of the few positive beacons I've found the last few days here despite where my subconscious takes her. With her comforting words and gentle pushes, I feel like I really am being rehabilitated. I start to hope that I will be able to walk on my own sooner than expected.

...

Haymitch and I are having a quiet dinner of roasted chicken. I've noticed that while the food is good, it's not nearly as extravagant as it used to be. I'm pushing the rest of the food around of my plate, my appetite still lacking when Haymitch interrupts my thoughts.

"Are you going to tell Katniss that her clone has her hands all over you every morning?" Haymitch asks.

"No. And she's not a clone. She has dark hair in a braid. That's it," I defend her.

"You think that's by coincidence?" He asks.

"Well, if it isn't, then it's lost on me. I'm here to get better and not notice anything else beyond that. I can barely fucking walk, Haymitch. In case you can't remember," I spit at him, disgusted with his accusations.

I return to my room and convince myself that there isn't a coincidence. From what she's said, it is her life's work to rehabilitate her patients, and she's done her job. I'm walking better every day, thanks to her, and now very ready to go home. Anything else is just the last of the poison from this place, trickling out of my veins.

...

I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Wurtz before I'm cleared to leave the Capitol. They want another round of standing x-rays to ensure that the replacement parts are still positioned correctly. At least I get to take this one home and show everyone my new parts.

"It's a good thing that you came to this surgery with so much inherent strength in your arms and legs. It has benefited you well in recovery, and you're going to need it when you get home."

"How so, Doctor?" I ask.

"Walking with the walker has been smooth thus far, on tiled and carpeted floors. The terrain back home, especially between the train station and your house will be hard. Can you see if there will be a car or cart available to you?" he suggests.

"A car?" I scoff. "Dr. Wurtz, I assume you've never been to District Twelve. Things are a bit more rustic there."

"Well, the most important part is to not fall. Your femur bone needs to accept the titanium stem. I'd expect to you walk without assistance within three weeks and also not need the CECT anymore. You can take the dressing off sooner than that, next week at home."

When I'm officially discharged, I'm reminded by both Dr. Wurtz and the PT staff that I need to be on pelvic rest for six weeks post-surgery. I'm also given a packet of information about my medications to read. There's even more pages about precautions and exercises, and a journal article on advisable sexual positions. I internalize another scoff and tuck that one into the middle of the packet so that I don't have to hear about it from Haymitch. I also have verbal instructions on how to massage the IT band that runs from my hip to the tibia, right across the side of my knee. Melania reiterated that it was important for me or Katniss to rub upwards, pushing fluid towards the lymph nodes in my groin.

I take my cane and step heel first, then landing my toe away from their offices. Heel, toe, heel, toe. I advance my surgical left first, then my good leg. I stop in the hallway and turn my head. Aren't they both good legs now? Aren't they both sound? Didn't the Capitol see to that? They are. I need to stop thinking of one leg being less operative than the other. I need to stop expecting evil around every corner too. These realizations, along with Dr. Aurelius's insights, seep into my subconscious, easing my nightmares over the next few nights.

I tell him so when I see him the day before we leave.

"Peeta, you've refused more medication, so we'll have to rely on cognitive behavioral therapies and peer support from Katniss, in addition to our weekly calls," he instructs.

I nod my head and shift in my seat.

"How do you think Katniss is holding up?" he asks, picking up on my unease.

"Since that first call after surgery, the wave of tension rolling off of Katniss seems to grow larger every time we talk. Each night, it seems like she relays a different way her mom has found to irritate her or the kids. Today, her mother has her own feelings on how to tackle Patrick's whining," I say.

"Hmmm, do me a favor and ask her to call me when she can," he asks.

"I'll try, doc. You know how she is though, with communication," I say with a weak laugh.

"I see. So you haven't told her about Melania yet?"

"No, there's still really nothing to tell," I say, defenses up. "I feel that I need to focus on Katniss while she's having such a hard time with her mom and not burden her with this or my dreams."

"You've had dreams about her?" Dr. Aurelius clicks his pen and starts.

"Um, maybe. It was just one, and it was all very shiny, like from before," I say, feeling my face begin to heat. "I would rather just wait to tell her about my PT staff until I get home."

"That's your choice, Peeta. Just be ready to deal with any fall out from your omissions," he warns.


	9. Chapter 8: Katniss -- Parachute

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

...

Peeta tells me about his team, and I'm overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude and envy toward these strangers. These people have been entrusted with his life, and they have proved themselves better than their predecessors in the Capitol. They have helped him to replace his broken parts, to heal, and to walk again. I wish I could have been there, to help him, to hold his hand through the tough days, and hold him close through the rough nights.

It is a relief that he sounds much better after his sessions with Dr. Aurelius too. He claims his nightmares are slacking off. I hope they really are, and he's not just shielding me from his pain. He promised that he'd tell me everything.

I cope without Peeta, but it's hard. I am mad at myself for not explaining why I reacted with unrestrained passion when he mentioned the dandelions. It never crossed my mind to tell him about the connection though, as if it were my own heart's secret to keep. Since Cara made the allusion though, I want to tell him that she wasn't the only one. I want to share my secret in person though; it's not something I want to describe when he's so far away from me. I just want him back, all of his pieces, no matter how he's stitched back together.

Cara and Patrick miss their dad. We all do. Patrick understands the absence less than Cara. With the major drama of his surgery out of the way and Peeta doing so well, they just want him to come home. He continues to whine and cry for him, even though they are able to talk once a day. I start a routine with a song, only seven more days until daddy comes home, only six, five, four more. I take the opportunity to work in a days of the week lesson to keep his mind occupied. Patrick also draws his daddy pictures with a big band-aid on his hip.

We check on Haymitch's geese and ensure they have plenty of grass. Some of the geese are already nesting, so we check for eggs. They should hatch in about a month, so that gives Patrick something to look forward to as well.

"Mama, what's taking so long for Daddy to come home?" Cara asks over dinner.

"He has to learn how to walk all over again. Do you remember when Patrick learned to walk by following you around on his chubby little toddler legs?" I ask and make a face at Patrick, bringing a round of giggles to the table.

"But Daddy has adult legs, right?" she verifies.

"Yes, but Dad's legs have more metal in them now than they used to, so he had to figure it out," I reason with her. "Now, Patrick, you'll have to be gentle with Daddy when he gets home because he's still fragile, just like those goose eggs," I remind him. Thank goodness we still don't have Buttercup; he'd be another trip hazard for Peeta.

The kids continue to ask questions, and my mom stays silent, quietly focusing on her dinner. I try to keep my thoughts on the kids and Peeta, but they keep drifting over to her, and I wonder why she's so disengaged. She rises from the table and heads to bed early that night.

After I answer another round of questions during bath and bed times, the kids are finally ready for bed. I'm ready myself; it's been another long day without Peeta here. In a moment of desperation, I slip my hand under my pajamas, imagining that it's Peeta's hands giving me a release. The little bit of stress relief it brings is washed out in the early morning light. My mom watches the kids so I can go out in the woods now that it has warmed up a little. I take solace in the trees, clearing my mind and focusing on staying strong for the kids.

...

After a frustrating morning in the woods, with scarce game and empty snares, I tromp back to the yard. I walk into the house to find my mom trying to get Patrick to eat more of his mid-morning snack. From what I can hear in the hallway on the way to the kitchen, she is being a little bit harder on him that I would be, given that it's just a snack. She's been showing signs of still being disconnected when the kids are interacting with her. It's like she's present in body but vacant in spirit. It must have something to do with being back in this house.

I round the corner to find Patrick on the verge of tears at the kitchen table. "What's this?"

"He should eat," she declares, pointing to his snack of dried fruits.

"But, mom, if he's not hungry then it's not going to happen. He'll just eat a bigger lunch or dinner," I explain, not seeing the urgency and growing more annoyed with her.

"You and your sister never had enough to eat, and there's plenty here for him," she says. "I never had to beg either of you to eat."

"No, you were too busy being depressed to even know what or _if_ we were eating," I say through clenched teeth, aware that Patrick is still in the room with us, his snack long abandoned.

Katniss, why am I here?" she asks in a calm tone against my seething fury. "I don't see a need for me to me here. You run a pretty tight ship as it is, and you seem to have Sae available at your fingertips."

"For starters, Sae could have other commitments or not feeling up to it. I can't just summon her, but if you're in the next room, I can," I reply. "It looks like I have it all together, but I don't always...have it all together. I don't...go away...anymore like you did, but I need time to myself for just an hour or two sometimes. And I'm strong enough to ask Peeta for support. I don't just shut down and shut everyone out," I say with a raised eyebrow.

She looks like I've slapped her when I haven't raised a hand.

"So you're here for a para—," I say, even forming the 'p' of the first syllable, not really thinking about my my word choice. "Safety net," I finish weakly.

Her stare levels me.

Patrick tries to interrupt us, "Mom, I don't feel so good," he croaks.

"Patrick, just wait a minute," I say. "Mom..."

"He doesn't look so good either, Katniss," she says looking him over.

"Just let me finish," I say.

"My head hurts, and my tummy feels funny. Like it did last Harvest Festival," he complains.

"I can make him a—" she starts.

"NO, Mom, I can do it. I'm perfectly capable of—" I scream, but anything else I was planning on saying is drowned out by Patrick vomiting all over our shoes.

We both jump into action to soothe the boy, our argument forgotten for now.

Mom makes him a tincture of peppermint and feverfew to drink for his stomach and headache. She also offers to mop the floor while I get him cleaned up and his bed ready. He drinks the medicine in his tea with his favorite sleepy time buddies for a long nap.

Cara must have my stomach for this, because she hides behind her book in the parlor when she gets home from school. I hope that it's not a contagious bug, the last thing Peeta needs to come home to tomorrow is a house full of sickness.

My mom and I operate under a truce for the rest of the night, though it weighs heavy on me. I haven't been considering that she's all alone. It's by choice, but she also did not have the benefit of therapy for her grief.

...

Peeta calls midday from the Capitol since we didn't speak last night.

"Is Patrick better?"

"Yes, thankfully. He's still complaining of a headache but he hasn't been sick since yesterday," I add. "When do you leave tomorrow?" I ask.

"First thing in the morning. I think 8am," he says.

"That's not really 'first thing' for a baker, is it?" I quip, overjoyed that his return is so close.

He chuckles, and the sound is wonderful. "I guess not. I have plenty of time to get back on my old schedule though," he says. "Effie has arranged transport from here to the train station. She's sending a care package for you and the kids too," he adds.

"Sounds good, anything else?" I ask.

"The distance between home and the train station will be too far for me to walk, despite my progress here," he says.

My heart drops. I figured he would be walking on his own by now with all of the advancements in the Capitol. He'll be more fragile than I thought he'd be. "OK, I'll arrange a cart through Thom for you. Would that work?" I ask and add it to the list for organizing Peeta's homecoming.

A card arrives the morning he's due home. Peeta has been getting several 'get well' cards, and I've been placing them on the mantle for him. This card is signed by names I don't really recognize but imagine are the surgical, nursing, and PT staff that tended to him. As my fingers glide over all the names of the people that were involved in his rehabilitation, I feel so far removed from him. I only heard him speak of them, since they were never around during our video transmissions. _Don't fall!_ signed by Dr. Wurtz. _Good luck!_ from Davil. _It was a pleasure to get you on your feet again!_ penned by a Melania.

I stop by the bakery midday for fresh bread, knowing he'll want his own recipe as a comfort food when he returns home. I've made a hearty stew that will go great with this loaf too.

I approach my mom during Patrick's nap, with just a few hours left before Peeta's train arrives. I know I have a lot to say in a short time, but yesterday's blowout showed me how far left we have to go. The stress of Peeta's absence, receiving my monthly courses, and my mom's ever present ability to unnerve and disappoint me have not worked in favor of a good visit for us.

"Mom, can we talk while it's still quiet? I feel like we won't have a chance later," I start, twisting my hands in my sweater.

"Yes, Katniss, I think that would be a good idea," she says.

"I'm sorry that I yelled at you," I start. "You've been so kind to help us out during this stressful time in our lives. I just wanted to say thank you for everything you're doing for us,"

"Thank you for that, Katniss. I'm sorry too. We probably needed to air out a few grievances." She smiles and shrugs, "I did the best I could, and you're doing much better. Despite everything you've been through, you're nurturing your children and doing a fine job as a parent. I'd like to think, that if your father lived, we'd be similar mothers to our children. I'm still trying to get back there. I have made much progress since Prim's death," she pauses for a moment, with a far off look in her eye. "But you've been able to overcome all of that much better than I did, so I suppose I'm a little envious of you."

"Oh, mom…." I gasp and run to her, pulling her into an embrace. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I cry.

"I'm so proud of you," she sniffs into my ear, shedding her own tears as well.

...

Later that afternoon, we all pack up for Peeta's arrival. Patrick, who's thankfully feeling like himself again, holds Cara's hand as they skip alongside my mom and me. The train arrives shortly after we reach the depot, and I can see Peeta moving towards the exit. I am lightheaded with giddiness.

Peeta's head pops out from the train first, his ashy blond waves a bright contrast against the train in the late afternoon light. I want to rush to him, but also to give him space to show us his progress. His blue eyes shine with unshed tears at seeing us again. When he reaches us, he opens his arms wide for us to flock to him. I fall into his arms and nuzzle at his neck. His scent has stuck with him, despite being in the Capitol for weeks and his day of travel. He leans into me for support when the kids latch onto him.


	10. Chapter 9: Peeta -- Homecoming

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

...

I arrive home to a welcoming party at the depot. Katniss's smile threatens to crack her face apart as we catch sight of each other through the window. When I finally depart the train, the children rush to me, flinging any notion of caution for my condition to the wind. I grunt when their hugs steal my breath away to a chorus of 'DaddyDaddyDaddy' and squeals of delight. Katniss approaches me softly. Haymitch slips out behind me and watches on in amusement.

I return the embraces, clutching them tightly. Hugging my own flesh and blood is incredible, and I knew I missed it, but I can't get enough of the feeling of Katniss in my arms. She smells like home. Patrick clings to my right leg, and Cara gently hugs my left side. I'm more than a little unsteady on my cane on uneven terrain, so I lean on Katniss for support.

"Shouldn't you be in school, Cara?" I ask.

"Apparently, she decided that you were worth skipping class for this afternoon," Katniss replies for her.

"Oh my goodness, we missed you sooooo much Daddy," Cara exclaims. "I couldn't wait until after school, I need to see you the minute you came home!"

"Yeah, and you're not allowed to go away. Ever again!" Patrick pipes in.

"I'm just glad you're home," says Katniss. "Three weeks was much too long without you."

"Where's your mom?" I ask, finally noticing that she's not among our group.

"Mom stayed home to get dinner going," she says without the trace of malice in her voice I've become accustomed to since being in the Capitol.

"Are things better between you two?" I inquire under my breath.

She turns and nods with a smile that indicates she'll tell me the rest later.

"Hey! Do you three want to see my x-rays?" I volunteer to the kids, changing the subject.

"We saw it while you were in the Capitol, remember, Daddy?" Cara answers.

"Yeah, but that was from far away. I brought a copy home with me so we can all see the metal in my bones!"

"Ewwww," Cara cries.

"Yessss," Patrick squeals.

We walk toward Thom, who has brought a cart for me and my luggage.

"Good to see you, Thom," I say. "Thanks for bringing the cart. I'm still not quite myself."

"Sure thing, Peeta. It's good to have you back in District Twelve."

Haymitch carries his own luggage and skulks off quickly for solitude. They get me home and the children cuddle into me on our bed while Katniss unpacks my bags. I'm sleeping soundly before long and the kids likely scamper off, in search of other quiet adventures.

Sleeping in bed the first night is tricky, since I've been on my own for the last few weeks. Katniss offers to sleep in our guest bed, but I tell her not to be silly. That what I need is her, next to me. We switch sides on the bed so my still tender incision is on the other side of her and can't get bumped accidentally in the night. I'm so tired from the travel and excitement of being home again, my first night is relatively peaceful, even with waking up again for more Morphling tablets.

Katniss' mom stays on a week or so, while I adjust to the logistics of home since I'm still fairly useless as parental support. I can't bend over to bathe the kids or shuffle around the kitchen to make a meal. She eventually leaves and while it's nice to have our family unit alone again, Katniss bears the brunt of caregiving, parenting, and homemaking. It's not long before it's clear that the load is too much for one person. She relents and has Sae come in the mornings to help get Cara off to school and Patrick started on his day. Sometimes Sae comes back in the evening, but the kids start to help more too.

The first time I show Katniss the surgical site, my leg is fairly swollen from not enough rest. The incision is puckered in a six inch strip, scar tissue forming where the surgeons sliced into my flesh. Fear flashes in her eyes and I feel like we're back at the creek in our first Hunger Games. She can't swallow down the memory down fast enough to hide it from my eyes either.

"Pretty awful, huh?" I say, still watching her closely.

She smiles back at me and shrugs, "So-so."

"At least you don't need to clean it this time," I offer, grinning. "No pus."

"Well I'm much more comfortable seeing you naked now, so we have that going for us too," she returns. "I can't believe it's just covered in medical tape, seems like you'd need stitches or staples or glue or something."

"Apparently it's the latest thing, and I'm happy to not have anything else foreign in the incision," I say.

"True, I assume rubbing your legs will still help?" she asks.

"Yes, They did say to concentrate on rubbing upward though, instead of all over," I blush, remembering the last time Katniss rubbed me down all over. I show her with my palms covering hers. The incision site is still itchy and burns at times, but I'm told this is normal. It's even itchier when Katniss's fingers glide over the recently shaved patches.

"They used that same gritty foam on my leg that they used on my face, from the first games. Do you remember?" I ask.

"Yeah, they put that stuff all over me. But you were able to keep some of your hair—I remember seeing it when I cleaned the mud off of you in the creek," I recall.

"Yes, well it would have been terribly uncouth to have unwanted facial or leg hair while fighting to the death," I mock in the affected Capitol accent. She wrinkles her nose at me, but it's a welcome sight-to be home, to be with her, just to start being me again.

...

Katniss dutifully continues the massages on my foot and legs to ease the swelling. She pushes her knuckles up from my knee to my upper thigh, trying to dissolve the lump the size of a chicken's egg under my skin near the incision. It's my favorite part of these massages and I let her know repeatedly.

We're careful to not get carried away, but the weeks of pelvic rest has been challenging for the both of us as my other appetite slowly returns. Katniss lets her hands drift one night. Her silver eyes meet mine to see if it's okay. I nod my head and she begins to stroke my flaccid penis. I know immediately that I'm still taking too much Morphling because her touch brings no effect to me. It's frustrating to both of us though her sympathetic smile brings some levity back into the moment. We've been here before on our road to recovery and we can make it good again.

She shifts to rubbing on my stomach and up to my arms, her head tucked into the crook of my arm.

"Are you going to check in at the bakery?" she asks, still staring out the window. "I kinda figured you'd want to get back there, but you haven't mentioned it since you came home."

I take a deep breath, because it has been on my mind. She's always been so good at reading me. "The truth is, I don't know if I can walk that far yet. All of my practice was indoors, or carpet or tile. That's a lot farther than I've tried to walk with my cane on uneven terrain," I admit.

"Hun, you're right. I hadn't considered the distance for you," she says. "It's about twice that far to the meadow."

"I know. I'll get there. Just give me some time," I say, threading my fingers through her hair.

"You will. If I have to march behind you and train you like a Career, you'll walk all over this District," she declares.

"I'll start tomorrow. I'll go part of the way and turn around when I need to. I'll go a little bit more every day," I promise.

And I do. I have a minimum of two more weeks of recovery, so I do more of my walking and exercises outdoors with the warming temperatures. I'm still not allowed to work and sex is discouraged, if not impossible right now, which leads to very quiet days around the house. Katniss gives me space when I need it and urging to stay active the rest of the time. I cut back on the Morphling and keep getting stronger with my assisted steps. I walk a little bit farther with the cane everyday until I'm finally able to reach the bakery.

The bakery staff is happy to see me, and I can tell they are glad to know I'll be back soon. From the quick peek I take at our books, we may have even turned a profit in the first quarter. Must be because I wasn't here to give away free cookies to the children. Running this business was never about a profit though; it was more to carry on my family's heritage.

I continue hitting milestones as long as I keep up with my exercises, walking, and stretching every day. I've kept up with my weekly calls to Dr. Aurelius and mentioned it to Katniss. She only scoffed at the suggestion. I still take my Morphling as needed, which isn't as often, and I'm beginning to feel the stirrings again.

My fingers have been itching to sketch and paint. I pull out my sketch book and let the pencil wander. I fill page after page of faces, architecture, equipment, and how it felt to be back there. I want to draw the new Capitol visage I left with, instead of the one I feared before leaving home. Most of all, I want to draw my new nightmares. Since I've been home, they have taken on a different form. Instead of dangers, it is miles of roads, trails, and paths in front of me that I have yet to conquer, but when I wake up she's there and I'm better. These nightmares taunt and challenge me instead of frighten me. I'm no longer haunted by what's ahead of me though, it's just a new challenge.

I stop taking the Morphling all together and keep getting stronger with my assisted steps. I walk a little bit farther with the cane everyday. Katniss and sometimes the kids join me on my walks.

My hands stay busy between sketching and painting. I look down at my notebook to see a collection of hospital staff faces one afternoon. I smile at their captured expressions as Katniss walks into the room.

"What are you working on?" she asks, eyes bright with curiosity.

"Ah, things I saw in the Capitol," I start, and I don't miss the ways she stiffens. "Members of my surgical and recovery team too."

"Can I see?" she asks as she leans over me.

I flip through the last few day's worth of sketches in my pad, showing her my work. When I land on the last page, I notice how much larger I have drawn one figure on the page, more vividly than anyone else. I freeze at the implication, that she was somehow more important than the rest. It is and isn't true. She was the most influential member of my team because she pushed me to do more, not because of how she looked. Either way, it can't be good for Katniss to see this. I should have found a way to tell her first.

I turn my head to look at Katniss, but her eyes are set on the page, no doubt on the central figure.

"Is that your team?" she whispers.

"Yes, that's Dr. Wurtz, Dr. Niels, Davil, and the rest of the PT team," I say quietly.

"Who is that?" she asks, pointing at the one figure I haven't named yet.

I take a deep breath and shift in my seat, dreading this moment. "That's Melania. She was one of my physical therapists in the Capitol,"

"Oh, her hair…" Katniss mumbles and bites her lips, her eyes darting between the page and me before she schools her features into indifference.

"Yeah, apparently you're still a popular style," I jest, trying to pull her unease away from the sketch.

"She seems lovely," Katniss says as she walks away.

I know her defenses are up, so I follow cautiously. "Katniss….?"

As I reach her, she's pulling on her boots by the door.

"The kids have been begging for time alone with you, so I'm just going to go out for a bit," she bites out.

"But we should start dinner soon," I say weakly, trying to get her to stay. I know she's upset about the sketch, but I feel like if I draw attention to it, I'll just make it worse.


	11. Chapter 10: Katniss -- New Normal

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated._

...

I wander in the woods all afternoon before finding myself back at the rock ledge I shared with Gale that overlooks the valley. I want to laugh; Peeta was so convinced that I didn't love him, that I loved Gale when we were in our second Games. It's ironic to me that I wound up here and that it would likely upset Peeta, but he'll never find me. I've walked too far for him to get here on his leg.

Rationalizing that there's not a connection between this woman in Peeta's rehabilitation and his inability to get an erection under my care is a struggle for me. We both had trouble with our sex drives as we grew together. At first, we were on such heavy doses of medication to combat our mutual PTSD that our parts weren't working even if we wanted them to. As we took less meds and developed more of an interest in each other, we found our way to each other's hearts and bodies. With every sealed page in our memory book, our minds and bodies grew stronger and ready for more. I remember those frustrating days of wanting in my head for him to touch me, or wanting to explore him, but our bodies not cooperating.

I believe him, and yet I'm floored that she would enter his subconscious only to be pulled out in a sketch. The only other time Peeta ever displayed an interest in another woman was when he was trying to hurt my feelings in the District Thirteen cafeteria. I don't think he's trying to hurt me now, but I still feel hurt. I feel so impotent in his progress because I wasn't there, and he doesn't need me to help him as much as I thought I would now that he's home. I'm a mockingjay with clipped wings and syrinx, unable to fly or sing.

Peeta twitches in his sleep too, likely still troubled by nightmares—which interrupts my sleep as well. Or is he thinking about her? That note she left in his card taunts me, _it was a pleasure to get you on your feet again._ On top of that, he doesn't seem to want me like he did before he left.

Compared to me, the girl in his sketch is younger and doesn't bear the scars of a survivor. Peeta has always made me feel at ease in my skin, the old and the newer patches. She looks like an alternate version of myself, before the Games and before poverty and grief hardened me into the determined sixteen year old that volunteered for her sister. She looks like the girl Peeta had a crush on in school, not the woman I am now. Which does he prefer?

She's everything I was before the Games changed me—changed him—corrupting his perception of me. Before I was a mutt to him, awake or in dreams. Before he tried to kill me.

I thought that I'd feel better when he came home, but now I'm not so sure. Being kept forcibly at a distance in this process has rendered me helpless to support him, while she's been right there. I want to believe him, but my old feelings of low self-worth have crept back into the corners of my mind. Haymitch always said that I could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him—what if he was right? I shake my head of these dangerous thoughts.

What would Aurelius tell me to do right now? Make a list? Remind myself of what's good in this world? Nothing feels good at this moment. My husband has sketched another woman with a braid. I don't feel connected to him in anyway. The kids finally have their dad back, so where does that leave me?

Should I confront Peeta over these feelings? I could send the kids out of the house to talk to him. I shake my head again at this thought, not ready to articulate all of the different directions my head and heart are pulling me.

No, I'll just swallow those thoughts down. I stay out in the woods longer than I planned, staring up at the sky and wondering how my life turned around so quickly. The walk back home is slow as I collect my thoughts, rearranging and ordering them until they make sense.

After I get home that night, the kids and Peeta have already eaten and are getting ready for bed. There's a plate for me at the table. I eat in silence, listening to Peeta limp from room to room above me, and a giant lump of self-hatred gets stuck in my throat. I've been thinking of nothing but myself the entire day while he's still hurting. I feel like I've spent the day back in my former shell, hating him for something that was beyond his control. Beyond all of our control.

I creep up the stairs so that I don't bother them, wash up, and slide into bed, facing the wall. Peeta joins me after a while with the telltale gait and dip on his side of the bed. It was so cold in bed those weeks without him. I feel his eyes on me and nervous, shallows breaths in the charged air between us. I shouldn't have left, I know that. I also think the walk helped me clear my head. His fingertips tentatively skate down my shoulder, testing out the waters. I want to assure him somehow, but I don't know how to start.

"Katniss, please don't shut me out. Not after everything from the last few weeks," he says as he strokes my back and takes a deep breath. "It tore me up to be away from you, and now that I'm home, I don't want to be apart anymore," he implores.

I turn over and face him. Tears are pooling in his clear blue eyes, mirroring mine.

"Oh, Katniss, no, please don't cry," he says as he cradles me to him.

The dam bursts in my chest, and I sob into his chest, my tears soaking his shirt.

"I wanted to be there. I needed to be there, and I wasn't. But she was, this girl that looked like me, and she helped you in ways I couldn't. She did. Not me," I hiccup through my sobs. "And you're home now, but not really, because part of you is stuck there."

"No, no, no, Katniss. I got better for you," he takes my face in his hands. "All for you. I pushed through my recovery for us, for our family."

His words are a relief to my ears. "So you don't want her?"

"Absolutely not. It's _you_ that I want, that I've _always_ wanted. You and I weren't together physically while I was gone, but you were with me, here, every step of the way," he says, bringing my hand to his heart. "I saw your scowl around every corner. Everywhere I turned, there was a memory of you—of us," he implores.

I cry harder into his shoulder, grateful for the release of emotions.

"Since I've been home, it's driven me crazy not to take you whenever I want to," he admits, clutching me closer to him. "In fact, I've stopped taking the Morphling pills all together so that all of me will work again."

"Really?" I squeak, pulling back to look him in the eye.

"The time apart from you was harder on me than the surgery, harder than the pain, worse than the nightmares," he says as he holds my face. "I love you. I want only you."

I bite my lip and flicker my gaze to his. "I love you too, I've missed you." I lean forward to press my lips to his. Warmth spreads at our point of contact and swirls through my veins, settling in my belly and making me hungry for more. I open my mouth to him, inviting and teasing his tongue.

He takes control of the kiss, cupping my jaw and tilting my head to the side. Our mouths slant together in a dance that we know well. My idle hands clutch his shoulder and twist the material of his shirt in my fist, pulling him closer to me. One of his hands falls to trail down the column of my neck, across my collarbone and down to my breast. He slips the straps of my nightgown off so that I'm completely naked. How I ached for his hands on my bare flesh. I gasp aloud when we pinches my nipple between his knuckles. Every part of me screams for more.

I can feel his growing response to me. I reach down his sleep pants to hold him in my hand and am met with an immediate result.

"Oh, Katniss, it feels so good to be touched again," he croaks, resting his forehead on my shoulder.

I wrap my fist around him, gently sleeving his cock a few times before he erupts in my hand and across his belly.

"I'm sorr—," he starts, but I shush him with a kiss.

"I know you'll make it up to me," I say and kiss him again.

I wipe him off with his shirt I've already dampened with my tears, and he strips off his sleep shorts. We lay down together, my back to his bare chest. He wraps his arm around me, slowly reaching down to my center. Once his fingers enter my slick warmth, I sense him hardening behind me again. He keep his hips still while I rub his stiffening cock with my bare buttocks and his fingers work me from the front, thumb ever present on my clit. We move in sync, his calloused fingers to my soft skin gliding against his turgid flesh. The need to move his own hips to gain friction must become insufferable, so he pulls me closer to him. No longer glancing past his cock, but threading it in the crease of my ass, I speed up and he follows with the thrust of his fingers. I come with a thundering cry in my chest that racks my entire body. He pulls his fingers from my aftershocks to guide the motion of my cheeks again himself. He follows me soon thereafter, streaming his release up my backside. We settle into each other after cleaning up and drift off to sleep.

...

Our lives return to our new normal, for the most part with his words and actions reaffirming our love and marriage. I keep rubbing his legs every night like he told me to, pushing the fluid upwards. Despite my first glance at it and the jolt it gave me, I admire his new scar. It's in good company amongst his other faded scars and patchwork skin—just like mine.

We play it safe for a little while longer, sticking to the original six weeks post-surgery time period. We have a follow appointment with Dr. Mills in the middle of April. Our hope is that he'll be cleared for a more active lifestyle. The nurse takes Peeta's vitals until Dr. Mills is ready to examine him. We brought the latest x-rays for Dr. Shaw to review as well.

Peeta shows off his range of motion and recites his daily exercises to the doctors.

"We're very impressed, Peeta. You've come a long way. Are you having any pain at all?" Dr. Mills remarks.

"No, in fact I haven't taken any of the pain medication in over two weeks," Peeta responds proudly and shoots a sideways grin at me.

"That's excellent, but don't be afraid to take it if you need it. If you're concerned about the side effects of the pain medication, consider the muscle relaxers that won't disturb your digestion or any other body chemistry," Dr. Mills advises.

"Thank you, I will," Peeta says and wraps my hand in his, his thumb stroking my knuckles.

"Okay great, then you can return to work at your leisure," Dr. Mills says, and you can resume all pre-surgery activities, although we would still caution against bringing your knees to your chest or trailing your legs behind you."

Peeta's arm grazes mine in a way that's not accidental at the news. I answer in kind by shifting my outer thigh against his as the full meaning from the doctor sets in—that we can bond properly now. His eyes spark to mine with unveiled intensity. He nods toward the door, and I bob my head in confirmation. We excuse ourselves and walk home as quickly as possible, given Peeta's still unstable steps with the the cane.

We bust through the door, happy to have the house to ourselves while Sae has Patrick. He spins me around to kiss me, walking me backward toward the living room.

"You have entirely too many clothes on," he says between kisses.

I grind my hips into his as I shrug out of my coat and grapple with our shirts and sweaters.

"I'm working on it, are you?" I tease.

"Oh, I'm ready," he returns.

And he was. He unbuckles my pants, teasing down the front seam with his fingers while kissing my neck. He peels down my pants to my knees, exposing my rear to the cool spring air, and turns me to face the back of the couch. I can hear him unfasten his own pants. He spreads my legs quickly and parts my entrance, no doubt not wanting to wait another moment before he's inside me. He knits his fingers between mine with his left hand on the sofa frame as he uses his right to push into me, his breath hot on my neck. This position should hopefully work well for him too, I think randomly, as the tip of his cock forges ahead. He's slowly thrusting into me while I push back onto him, letting him fill me, inch by inch, over and over. I feel so full with him inside me once again, it's been too long.

"You're incredible, you feel incredible," he breathes into the nape of my neck.

"Keep going," I huff out, my breath stolen by the force of his thrusts.

"I'm not finishing until you do," he swears, unlacing our fingers to reach around to my center. His touch lights me up, making me feel surrounded by him, by his love pouring into me. Pleasure spikes throughout me, coiling deep within my body. He circles on my clit in time with his cock pumping in and out of me, and my knees begin to weaken. My orgasm hits me hard and echoes within my walls, gripping him tighter. He cries out and continues to thrust erratically into my collapsed body until he's filling me with his seed. Afterward, I don't care enough to bother to move from slumped position over the couch.

He kisses my neck, bringing me back to his chest, "I'd say that was just about right."

"Mmmmhmmm," I murmur, ready for a nap.

He takes the afternoon off to ice and elevate his legs, keeping swelling down. He helps me in the kitchen later for dinner, bumping into my hip and staying in constant physical contact since our earlier reunion. The kids eat and go to bed without any hassle, happy to hear that Peeta will be going back to the bakery when he wants to.

That night we take our time. I undress for him slowly, reveling in revealing each inch of skin to him. I fall into bed with him, kissing his neck and freckled shoulders. I trace the planes of his chest, brushing through the blond hairs and toying with his pink nipples. He leans forward to kiss me, stroking my tongue with his. Time is immeasurable as we touch and tease one another. I kiss the puckered flesh of his scars, new and old. He maneuvers me above him to lick me. His tongue and fingers take me to the brink of orgasm before I ease off his face to slither down his body. I ride him slowly on jellied legs, pausing to lean down and kiss him between revolutions of my hips. His fingers skate up and down my chest and arms, holding onto my breasts when I rock into him harder. We hold onto each other as we build to and find our release.

It reminded me of the first time we made love, when he whispered "you love me, real or not real," and, after, it prompts me to open up about my earlier epiphany.

"Before, when Cara said you were a dandelion...I—uh, had a strong reaction to that sentiment, " I say, biting my lip.

He scratches the back of his neck. "I'll say."

"It's because that's how I've always seen you, going back to when we were eleven, with the bread. Your bread gave me life, and I was trying to think of a way to thank you. Do you remember?" I ask.

"Yeah, you picked a dandelion instead in the schoolyard," he recalls.

"Right. The dandelion reminded me that I could forage in the forest for food, and eventually hunt like my father. Without you, without your bread, I wouldn't have made that connection. You've always been there, giving me life, giving me hope," I pause and curl up next to him. "I should have told you this twenty years ago, but you have always been my dandelion, so it took me by surprise that Cara came to the same conclusion."

"And that's why you climbed me like a tree?" he grins, and I swat at his arm.

"Hey, I'm being serious here," I say and capture his blue eyes with my own. "You have proven time and time over, that things can be good again. I was so scared for you, so scared for all of us while you were gone."

"I know. I was too," he breathes, seeming to absorb my serious tone. "Your dandelion is home now though, and I don't want to ever leave again."

I swat at him again for good measure for making fun of me, and keep the mood light. I wear nothing but a contented smile to bed that is mirrored in his expression. Today was good, and it'll only get better. We'll work our way back up to the intense sex from before, but for now, this is good.

Later, he surprises me on my 38th birthday by taking his longest journey yet without a cane, so that he can join us in the meadow for a picnic. Peeta always finds a way to give me the best gifts in life.


	12. Epilogue: Peeta's Daydream

_**Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.**_

 _A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay._ _ **Rated E for explicit language and sex.**_ _Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation_

 _papofglencoe: Caryn, I'm eternally in your servitude for this banner and intense beta work because really... who writes a fic completely on their ipad and does a downright horrible job of looking it over before they send it off to someone else...? Oh that's right...me. You really had a tough job cut out for you and I'm so glad that you were up for the challenge with weird capitalization and punctuation._

 _notanislander: Carrie, you were my source of encouragement from the start... with my wild idea for a nightmare and pulling in the red suit into the mix to kick off this surgery and recovery fic._

 _fnurfnur: Karen, thank you for giving the Epilogue one last look-see on your birthday weekend and when you'd likely much rather be doing something other than pre-reading._

 _Thank you to all of my readers. Thank you for reading, reviewing, and reacting to this story. Your words have filled my heart with so much joy over the last few months and it's truly been appreciated._

...

I stumble across the forest fringe into a meadow, searching for my family. I trip on a fallen branch, my trailing boot laces tangled up in the twigs and vines. I twist and land with a thud, the impact echoing in my joints and my bottom in the wet, dewy grass.

The meadow is peaceful around me, the wildflowers in bloom emanating their sweet redolence. The horizon is warming up to the rising sun as I spy the source of my entanglement. The loose knot has wrapped around one of Katniss's or maybe Cara's stray arrows, firmly lodged in a grounded branch.

My head turns at the sound of infectious children's laughter. My first thought is to flee towards them, but then I remember that I'm stuck to this arrow. My left knee comes to my chest with ease as I untangle the laces and double knot them as they should be.

Grass sways as a shadowed figure approaches me. Geese honk in the far off distance with a disgruntled man hollering after them, swinging his bottle of white liquor in the air. Green sprigs color my peripheral vision, spring abounding all around me.

Her silver eyes come into view, gorgeous and determined; not the eyes of a Mutt or Mockingjay in front of me, but the love of my life and savior. Her dress is covered in flowers too, the meadow cloaks her in its wild abundance. Her glowing face is serene, contented as she observes my predicament in curiosity.

I am rooted to the spot in awe of her spirit and beauty. I feel the damp ground seeping into my pants, but I'm transfixed by her gaze. I scan her face for anything amiss, but I'm met with a pleasant countenance.

"For you, my love," she whispers and extends a bouquet of dandelions, some with the yellow blossom, some with the wispy seed heads. Fingers reaching for my own, she pulls me up to stand alongside her. Flowers remaining unharmed, we walk hand in hand towards our children, dancing in the meadow.

Am I dreaming? Am I at home, asleep in our blankets or on a bed of grass, under the willow? Am I in some sort of utopia, where the odds are forever in my favor?

My eyes fly open as a breeze tickles my nose and I'm greeted by the warm sunshine on my face. My daydream was real. My son showers me with kisses as Katniss and Cara sing and dance nearby, our picnic long forgotten.

All of the little things have added up to a life well lived. All of my blessings have been counted and appreciated. Also the way it felt to grind into her and fusing our hips without any pain, without fear of pain.

It's almost unbelievable, but I did it. I saw the doctors, traveled far from home, was pried open for repairs like and old oven, and I handled the recovery. I managed the fears and the nightmares brought on my return to the Capitol. I survived for her, for them.

The End.


End file.
